


A Walk with Frost and Fire (and Death and Snow)

by LuxEvergreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussion of Rape, F/M, Final Battle, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I think I drank too much wine, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Spoilers for Book 5 - A Dance with Dragons, Violence, War and Bloodshead, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-05 03:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 181,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxEvergreen/pseuds/LuxEvergreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good and evil… man and woman; ice and fire… black and white, death and life. Life has never been one thing or the other, Lady Brienne. Life is a hopeless smudge of gray. But to the White Walkers—they have no grace for everything that falls in between."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dead Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfic ever! I've been a fan of GOT since 2011; haven't been a J/B shipper until this year.  
> This is angsty as all angst can be, but I promise you...end game for me is always a happy ending!  
> Personally, I hate major character death stories, but please believe there is a silver lining to this story.
> 
> Legal Disclaimer:
> 
> This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Song of Ice and Fire world, which is trademarked by George RR Martin. I do not claim ownership of the characters or this world that I am borrowing. All of these characters are created and owned by George RR Martin, and I do not claim any ownership over them.
> 
> This is a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This is a work intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. 
> 
> The story I tell here about Jaime and Brienne is my own invention, and it is not part of George RR Martin's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline.  
> I am not profiting financially from the creation or the publication of this story.
> 
> Thank you, George RR Martin, for your incredible story. Without your beautiful mind, this story would not have existed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrangements have been made; a journey begins.

The title for this chapter and the name for this story both come from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  If you're interested, I've left you a link [here](http://allpoetry.com/The-Dead-Woman).  

\---------------------------------------------- 

Present:

 

High on top of a steep hill, Jaime Lannister tried to surveyed the lands below while mounted on his horse. Disappointed by what he had found, he felt his heart squeeze tight in his chest. The valley of the Riverlands was obscured in a thick veil of fog. Foolishly, he had hoped to follow Brienne's procession from this hill until she was no longer within his sight.

Feeling desperate, he considered delaying the procession for a little while longer. _Perhaps the sun will burn off the fog soon. Just a few more hours and then I..._ His thoughts came to an abrupt halt once his tired eyes filled with fresh tears. In his heart of hearts he knew there was no point in waiting any longer. Every delay he tried to conjure up soon withered to ashes once he realized he was looking for an excuse to keep her with him for only a little longer.

The soft cantering of hoof beats began to rise as Jaime quickly blinked back tears. Ser Addam Marbrand rode slowly up behind, granting his childhood friend a wide berth of distance once he made his presence known. He surveyed his old friend with an objective eye:

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was not dressed in his traditional white armor plate. Instead, Addam found Jaime dressed in the smooth luster plate of crimson and gold; it was his Lannister armor. Should Jaime have chosen to have worn his Kingsguard whites, he would have appeared sickly, pale and gaunt. His golden hair was wild and disheveled, burnished with grease; liquid green eyes were bloodshot with unshed tears; his square jaw was clenched beneath his beard and his face was tense and drawn. With a small shudder, Addam thought to himself that had he worn his whites, Jaime's looks would more resemble a ghost than that of a soldier.

"Ser Jaime. It's time."

Jaime lowered his chin in defeat once the meaning of Addam’s words began to register.

Feeling his phantom fingers itch, Jaime looked out over the hill one last time and imagined that the fog had finally lifted. In his mind he could see the sun shine high and bright, the skies were clear and on the road beneath this hill, Brienne, the Maid of Tarth waited for him.

She would be seated high on the beautiful dappled mare he gave her, once, so long ago. He imagined her looking up at him in her midnight blue armor as the wind danced in her curling, pale blonde hair; her cheeks would turn into a lovely pink from some silly blush. He could see her face as she smiled up at him; it was the kind of smile that could put starlight to shame. With a joyful wave, Brienne would call out to Jaime; he could tell she was excited to be riding again. Through the curling winds of winter Jaime could almost hear Brienne's voice ring out in a hollow echo; she beckoned him to hurry back down; with a smile in her voice he could hear her say it was time for them to ride out and go on another adventure together.

"Jaime."

Addam was reluctant to ride closer to Jaime's side; it made him nervous to see his old friend look so bereft, so...broken.

"The septon is ready. We are... we will need to be marching soon. The body..."

The word felt like a frozen dagger in Jaime's back.

_The body._

Not _the lady_ , not _your friend_ , not  _Lady Brienne._

Just simply: The Body.

"Call her by her name."

Ser Addam paused; he felt chastised even though Ser Jaime spoke in a soft, patient voice. Clearing his throat, Addam continued, speaking with the utmost delicacy.

"The Lady Brienne is waiting."

Jaime was wrong. Having her name spoken felt even worse.

Nodding his head in silence, Jaime sniffed his nose in the dry winter air and willed his eyes to go dead with feeling. With a gentle kick of his heels, Jaime motioned for his horse, Honor, to turn back down the steep hill. Every hoofbeat sliced the frozen quiet and carved out a bitter crunch as the horse made its way through an icy crust on the freshly fallen snow. Over his shoulder he could hear Addam riding up at a distance behind.

On the roadway below, Jaime was astonished to see how still, how quiet everything had become.

So accustomed to war, Jaime thrived in the strange song of camp life: it was the sound of brash soldiers and the bawdy talk of enterprising camp followers; the bright clatter of blades being sharpened, the cold, clanking sound of dented armor being hammered back into shape; the dull roar of laughter as a beautiful tapestry of curse words embellish a tall tale from some bored, attention starved soldier; the whinny of horses and the painful moans of injured soldiers calling out for their mothers; the loud snores of exhausted men and the tinkling sound of drum and pipe playing off in an eerie distance.

Swinging off his mount with heavy, aching limbs, Jaime Lannister let out a deep sigh as he looked over at his men with a strange sense of pride. This had all been Addam's doing.

Two hundred soldiers, one hundred on each side, lined the road to form an honor guard; each man stood with stalwart shoulders and ramrod straight backs. At a close distance, from both sides of the road, every remaining soldier had gathered behind the honor guard to look on. Washer women, healers and camp followers stood further off from the rest of the crowd, all keeping quiet with a look of fascination writ across their faces. Ten mounted Lannister soldiers, five in the front, five from behind, were mounted in ready for the procession. In the center of the pathway, eight silent sister, wrapped in grey and cloaked in silence, stood at the sides of a covered wood cart that was used to carry supplies into battle.

Inside the cart was a litter draped with the crimson and gold standard of house Lannister. Lying in state, wearing armor that’d been polished to an inky blue gloss, Jaime saw her:

Brienne, the Maid of Tarth.

With a wash of fresh tears threatening to fall, Jaime clenched his square jaw down so hard he felt as if though he were about to shatter his own teeth from within. With hard eyes, Jaime tried to looked down at Brienne with a cool aloofness but soon felt his breath shudder high in his chest.

Her hair had been washed; soft curls had naturally dried into place, threatening to make the Maid look more beautiful in death than she had been in life. Wide lips, once so pink and flush were now bleached of life and marred by a thick, angry gash that never got a chance to heal. Thick, silk ribbons were wrapped around her neck and woven into a lovely pattern; it was placed there to conceal the mortal wound that crossed her throat. The ribbons bound to her neck were rose pink and azure blue; they were the house colors of Tarth.

With detached wonder, Jaime paused to look down at Brienne's pale blond eyelashes; he was amazed to see how thick they were; how lovely they curled against the blackened bruises over her dead eyes. _How long they were; how pretty. Why didn’t I notice them when she..._

Feeling a knot form in his mouth, Jaime sternly nodded his head with silent approval and then gave the septon a hard look, signaling him to begin the blessing.

A thin man with a bald head, sunken eyes and a defeated look on his face stepped forward. His robe, used for burial rites and somber blessings, were once a creamy white with an elaborate seven pointed star stitched onto the wool with silver thread. That was back then, when the Lannister army left Kings Landing, years ago. The robe now had lost most of its silver thread, and what had remained was only snagged and mostly unraveled. The pristine white of the wool had now been soiled by years of bloodshed and neglect, closely resembling a dirty grey with brown spots of dried blood splattered across his chest.

A soft, cold wind graced the road, making Brienne's hair dance and falter. With a furrowed brow, the septon made the sign of the seven pointed star over her body and began his blessing for the dead.

"To the Father, we humbly request your mercy and to judge Lady Brienne’s soul in fairness. To the Mother, we beg for your compassion for allowing Lady Brienne passage into the Seven Heavens in peace. To the Maiden, we are grateful to you for preserving the virtue of this fallen woman; we inter to you a true maiden, pure and unblemished. To the Smith, we bid you to bless us with the strength to continue on; may you forge our hearts with iron as our hearts ache in mourning. To the Crone, we beseech your guidance; may you lead Lady Brienne to the Seven Heavens with wisdom and in peace. To the Warrior, we command you to guide and defend Lady Brienne as she makes her passage from this world into next. To the Stranger, we thank you for blessing us with the Lady Brienne for as long as she has lived. In life, she lived amongst us as a stranger; in death, she will be known in our hearts, forever more."

In his life, Jaime Lannister could only recall the few times he ever prayed so fervently: The first had been after the unexpected death of his mother; the second was during the unspeakable pain and the horrible agony following the loss of his hand; the third had been for Brienne of Tarth's burial blessing.

A hymn of mournful prayer rose gracefully, as high as honor, into the winter air; it was a song that was as soft as a river breeze, as tender as the darling buds of spring. The silent sisters began to hum a gentle chorus as the septon anointed the seven oils on Brienne's battered forehead.

Jaime didn't realize he had stood next to Podrick Payne until the blessing of the oils commenced. He looked at the young squire with a heady mix of sternness and compassion. Pod had been weeping openly.

Clutched to his chest, Pod held the white cloak of the Kingsguard; it was Jaime Lannister's white cloak, pristine and glowing. The young squire looked at Jaime with bloodshot eyes; Jaime looked back and gave Pod a thin smile that'd been stitched tight on his face. Both of them walked up to Brienne's litter and began to drape the white cloak over the Maid's body.

 _This should have been your honor_ , he thought stubbornly. _You were the only true knight. This world never deserved you, Wench_.

A slight tremor was visible in Jaime's hand as he unclasped the red scabbard that bound Oathkeeper to his waist. With the remainder of his right arm he cradled the blade like a sweet child as his thumb stroked the Lannister gold and ruby inlay on the hilt. In his mind he could see Brienne holding this same hilt in defiance and bravery. He ran his thumb once over the roaring lion head on the pommel as a wry, unexpected smile crossed his lips.

_Oathkeeper._

A thick silence abruptly descended upon the funeral ceremony. Jaime's warm remembrances had been rudely interrupted. All eyes were now on him. With a stern voice, not unlike his father's, Jaime forged his face into a blank canvas as he held up Oathkeeper to Pod.

"I give you leave to escort the mortal remains of Brienne, the Maid of Tarth, to her homeland. They are to be guarded with honor until they are interred into the family crypts of Evenfall Hall. Her blade is to be given to her father, Lord Selwyn Tarth, with the utmost respect. Complete this task and you will be honored a knighthood upon your return to King's Landing. Do you swear to uphold your vows and return the Lady's bones and sword to her home?"

Podrick's eyes were now clear and hard with determination. "I solemnly vow to return the Lady of Tarth and her blade to her home, Ser. This I swear."

A boy, no more than a green squire by the name of Pod was once introduced to Jaime Lannister, it felt, a lifetime ago. This morning, Jaime said goodbye to Podrick Payne, a man grown, who now knew the blessing and burden of a solemn vow.

Letting go of Oathkeeper was one of the hardest things Jaime Lannister had ever done. It wasn't just a sword. It was the vows of a stupid, stubborn, brave wench who, in spite of everything, became his friend. It was the sweet tune of a romantic ballad Brienne would hum whenever she mistakenly assumed Jaime wouldn't be able to hear her. It was her indefatigable strength and her incalculable loyalty that always defied logic and reason. It was a beautiful smile that always shined in spite of a homely face. It was the sound of her voice the first time she said his name instead of 'Kingslayer.' It was the blue of her eyes and the memories of sapphires and the fabled waters of Tarth. It was the dream of a thousand kisses he had once imagined but will never know.

 _Let them watch_ , he thought with a resolute heart.

With a silence as thick as the Riverlands fog, everyone watched Lord Commander Jaime Lannister as he made his way back to Brienne's body. Another tremble in his hand could be seen; he gently ran his fingers into her unbearably soft hair. _This is the last time I touch you_. All of the mats and tangles had finally been combed out; all that was left was a silky pile of pale gold that shone like the autumn sun in a blinding blue sky. His thumb made one measured stroke across her wide mouth.

_Never forget this._

He lowered his head close to her face. He would have given his life for one more moment with her.

_Damn their eyes. Let them watch._

Jaime Lannister pressed his warm lips to Brienne's full mouth. With all his heart, Jaime gave to her this first and final kiss.

He held back sudden tears that burned his throat. Jaime closed his eyes with heartbreak once he finally tasted of her lips.

 _She's so cold_.

If only she had lived, Jaime would have rained kisses on Brienne's lips for the rest of his life. But she had died, and so did too a piece of Jaime's heart on that day. Once the septon had made his sign of the seven pointed star, the procession was blessed and was finally granted leave to go.

Mounted onto their horses, the silent sisters began to sing another hymn once Podrick tied shut the curtain that covered the back of Brienne's wagon. This hymn was different now; it was low, mournful and seemed to hold a whisper of judgement. Judgement for whom, Jaime couldn't say, but he assumed the burden just the same.

With little ceremony, Pod limped away from the wagon to awkwardly mount his horse; he was placed with little distinction at the rear of the procession next to the last Lannister guard. With Oathkeeper bound to his waist, Pod bowed his head with a final farewell and led his horse to follow the slow train from behind.

As the mournful hymn carried its way down the frozen road, Jaime watched every soldier as their eyes followed Brienne's funeral procession. Jaime marveled at their reverence; even still, they had no idea what they truly lost. They still had no idea what Jaime had truly mourned.

Once the wagon made its way past the honor guard, the wagon, the soldiers, the silent sisters and what remained of Brienne were all swallowed up into the thick veil of fog. All that lingered was a haunted melody while the silent sister sang their ghostly hymn.

 _Its better this way,_ Jaime thought ruefully. _It hurts too much to see her go._

From behind, Addam Marbrand laid a strong hand of consolidation on Jaime's shoulder. Jaime in turn looked over and saw his friends face for the first time that day. He was surprised. There was compassion in his eyes; they were the eyes of a man who understood another man’s loss.

 

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

 

Heavy snow drifts made the start of the Maid's procession more of a challenge than most had anticipated. In truth, it would have been the perfect time to attack the guards so they could lay siege on the retinue. The problem was the train was still far too close to the Lannister camp for their comfort.

Buried beneath a woolen cloak caked in thick snow, a man concealed himself under a thick bramble of icy blackberry bushes. With a steely gaze he studied two Lannister guards at the front of the line, watching them bicker with one another. As instructed, the spy remained buried deep in the snow so that he could watch the procession discreetly; he was assigned to help evaluate what would be the best tactical strategy for their objective.

_Ten Lannister guards, eight silent sister, and one scrawny kid heading the tail; all mounted; morale appears to be low. A siege from behind would be best; wait for a place on the road that has thick snow drifts, just as large as the ones here. Neutralize the guards at the rear, secure the cargo; eliminate any other guards remaining; try not to kill any of the sisters._

The man beneath the snow plastered cloak watched the procession carry on from his station under the snowy blackberry thicket.

_Once they make it to River Road...we'll rain hell upon them._


	2. Tonight I Can Write (The Saddest Lines)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is going home; Jaime begins to be honest with his own feelings; a simple journey gets an unexpected detour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take a moment to thank you all for your lovely comments and support! This is my first fic published online and it's still nerve wracking for me to share it with everyone. I have to say that the J/B community is incredibly supportive, friendly and nurturing. Honestly, I can't say that with about many other fandoms!

 The title for this chapter is a Pablo Neruda poem by the same name.  I'll leave a link to it in case you're interested [here.](http://allpoetry.com/Tonight-I-Can-Write-\(The-Saddest-Lines\))

\----------------------------------------------

Present:

Lying flat on his back with a hand on his chest, Jaime Lannister stared up at the red canvas of his tent and wondered what it must feel like for someone to know they’re about to die.

A deep sigh rose and fell from his aching chest.  Outside, the soothing call of rain beating against his tent tried to hum him a lullaby into the dark.  Clenching and unclenching his hand, Jaime finally admitted to himself that he was afraid to fall asleep. That was when all of the terrible dreams began.

Sore from exhaustion, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sunk his body deeper into his fur blankets; he closed his eyes and tried to feign sleep, but failed miserably. In the darkness his memories were clearest, and in those nightmares he could see Brienne's last moments with vivid, painful detail.

She had struggled for breath; she kept choking on her own blood as her final words began to stutter; the large wound on her neck had a sickening burble of gore that slowly oozed out. Her platinum hair was dyed pink and red with streaks of mud; the thick cut on her lips had looked so raw and unforgiving. The bright shine of her limpid blue eyes; how it sucked the air from his lungs. The heart shattering smile she tried to give him once he had assured her that he was finally safe.

Like an echo that still trembled in a boundless cave, Jaime remembered the words Loras Tyrell once said about Brienne.  He had spoken of the wench's pitiful devotion to Renly Baratheon with such sad revulsion; his callous words now chilled Jaime in the darkest corners of his thoughts.  

_"I asked him why he kept her close, if he thought her so grotesque. He said that all his other knights wanted things of him, castles or honors or riches, but all that Brienne wanted was to die for him."_

A tear slid from his eye in spite of his efforts.  Then another.  Jamie closed his eyes and rolled onto his side.  Turning his face into his pillows, Jamie allowed himself to cry; the hurt was too much.

He quietly prayed for his heart to go dead.

 

\---------------------------------------------

Three days earlier:

 

The Lannister soldiers had escorted her body into camp by daybreak. Beneath their heavy feet was the wet slush of winter snow and icy mud.  A call had been made for the camp septon; he had been told to send out a raven for a nearby sept, requesting the presence of silent sisters to prepare Brienne for her return to Tarth.

Word spread quickly all throughout the camp:

 

"Who’s he?"

" _She_. That's _Brienne the Beauty_. She laid siege to the Brotherhood singlehandedly. She slaughtered Lady Stoneheart."

"I heard Stoneheart was Catelyn Stark, raised from the dead."

"They say she butchered a dozen men of the Brotherhood with only a _Valyrian sword_.”

"One soldier said that Stoneheart turned into a direwolf just before killing Lady Brienne."

"Someone told me she was fucking the Kingslayer."

"Aye. Kingslayer's Whore."

"My cousin said he once saw them rutting like dogs outside of a tavern back in King's Landing."

"I heard he forsook his vows and they were married in secret after she returned him to the Red Keep."

"Was she with child?"

"Word is she’s the one who killed Rob Stark at the Red Wedding."

"Wasn't she the one who slaughtered _Renly_?"

"The story goes that she was actually a spy for Tywin Lannister.   _That's_ why she killed Renly."

"She once killed a bear using only her hands."

"The lady fought the bear naked, I heard."

"I heard she liked to eat the flesh of her enemies.  That's how Vargo Hoat really died."

 

On and on, rumors, stories and half truths littered the camp grounds.  Within hours, something strange had occurred: That morning, all men had heard of the death of a hideous, freakish maid who fancied herself to be a knight; by evenfall, the myth and legend of a fearless maiden warrior was born.

Upon his return, Jaime Lannister retained a steadfast vigil over Brienne; absurdly, he still wore his Kingsguard armor.  Over and over, Jamie told himself that he was only showing Brienne a sign of his respect, but quietly he'd been afraid someone would try to hurt her.

At his insistence, he commanded that his personal tent be used to ensconce Brienne's remains from the rest the camp.  He couldn't bare to imagine foul soldiers with their prying eyes laughing at her broken body or making cruel jokes about her.  Jaime vowed with a clenched jaw that if anyone dared to say anything dishonorable about Lady Brienne he would personally put their heads on a spike. _Her blood is on my hands_. On the great table in the center of the tent, Jaime ordered for a Lannister flag to be laid out so her body would rest upon it.  

With a blank face and heavy limbs, Jaime stood at the foot of her makeshift bier for hours, trying to absorb the finality of Brienne’s life. Memories of his imprisonment at Riverrun, their travels together, the Bloody Mummers, shouting sapphires, her gentle voice commanding him to live and seek revenge, Harrenhal, the bath, dreams of her naked with a flaming sword, her in a bear pit, her astonishing eyes, her holding Oathkeeper...

On and on the memories chased one another into a tight spiral that twisted and burned with both fondness and regret. _Why was I so cruel to her?  She was such an innocent. Why couldn't I have spoken kinder words to her?_   Outside, Jaime could faintly hear soldiers sneaking quick glances into the tent, trying to catch a glimpse of the now fabled warrior maiden who stole the Kingslayer's heart.  Sometimes he could hear them speak, some even offered up soft condolences; Jaime never had the strength to reply.

By evenfall, eight silent sisters had arrived on horseback to see to Brienne’s body.  When the sisters finally made their way into the tent, Jaime slowly blinked at them with owlish eyes; he had wondered if they were lost and soon pondered what they had wanted. It was almost as if he couldn't really accept the fact that Brienne was really, truly gone.

By tradition of the seven, the silent sisters would have normally removed the Maid's organs and stuff her body with salts and herbs to keep her remains from decomposing. But because Brienne's body was already in full rigor mortis and because the harsh winter winds had started to freeze her body, the silent sisters informed Ser Addam Marbrand with a slip of parchment that they would not proceed with a traditional embalming. Figuring the cold winter air would preserve Brienne for the duration of her travels, Ser Addam accepted the judgement of the sisters and agreed with no objections.

With careful hands the silent sister unpacked their supplies from a great wooden chest.  Small glass bottles filled with oils, flowers and ointments softly clicked against one another; one sister began to boil water from a large copper pot; another began to anoint the water with a flowery scent that quickly filled the room.  With a clutch of fear Jaime spoke out before he had a moment to think.

“ _Brienne hates roses_.”

One sister glanced at another with big eyes.  Another sister nodded her head; two women carried the profane water outside to be dumped out. They refilled the pot with clean water and brought it to a boil.  Jaime blinked and sighed with relief.

More candles were lit; the dark nights always seemed more bleak this far north.  Four women began the careful task of removing Brienne’s midnight blue armor.  Metal clasps and leather straps clicked and scraped with a soft grace.  The intimate sight and the gentle sounds of Brienne’s armor slowly being peeled off, piece by piece, made Jamie feel as if though he were a fly mounted on a wall.  

With the last piece of her finery clipped and snapped away, two sisters took to removing Brienne’s muddied boots like a mother would do for a sleeping child. Jaime felt his heart pinch in his chest when he saw Brienne's left sock had been saturated with frozen blood. Two sisters fell to the task of having the lady’s armor carried out, one piece at a time, so if may be cleaned and repaired for burial.

One sister began to unfasten the mail from the lady’s body but the elder sister stepped forward and held her hand sternly over the younger ones hand.  The younger sister lowered her head in obedience as she released her hold from the blood drenched mail. The elder sister lowered her arm and stood directly in front of Jaime.  Armored in silence, the elder sister placed herself directly in front of Brienne; she wanted Jamie to understand that his presence was no longer acceptable.  One sister began to unfold long, clean towels as another sister unpacked fluffy yellow sea sponges from the wooden chest; it was apparent that they were about to give Brienne her last bath.  With wide eyes Jaime nodded.  To his surprise, he found Addam Marbrand had been standing directly behind him.

“Come now Jaime.  Let’s leave the sisters to their work.”  Jaime heard Addam's whisper and he understood the words, but he looked at him as if he had spoke to him in Dothraki.   _How long has he been standing here?_  Taking in his dazed appearance, Addam held back a wince and tried again.  “I promise: Nothing is going to happen to her.  I’ll stand guard outside.  You need rest.”

Jaime lowered his green eyes like a dog that was just kicked in the ribs.  Licking his chapped lips, Jaime spoke with a hoarse voice; every word felt heavy as they stumbled over his leaden tongue.

“You’ll…you’ll stay with her?”

Addam gave him a small smile; it was the kind of look that felt torn somewhere between sympathy and pity.   “Aye.  I’ll be right outside.  The sister’s will take good care of her, I promise.  Anything happens, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

Jaime turned his head back over to the elder sister who stood between him and what remained of Brienne.  Instead of the stern look she had given him earlier, the elder sister lowered her eyes in sympathy.  Jamie felt his dry eyes scan across the room over the remaining sisters in the tent; he tried to size them all up mentally; none of the sister appeared to have any malicious intent hidden in their gaze.  Each woman stood still and alert, some even wondered what exactly Lady Brienne meant to Jaime.  With concession and dull eyes, Jaime lowered his head and walked slowly out of the tent.  

Once the tent flap had been lowered down, Addam  let out a small sigh of relief as Jaime felt the cold winds hit his skin for the first time in hours.  With one arm around his neck, Addam briefly squeezed Jaime’s shoulder like an elder brother.  “My tent is over there.” He gestured with his free hand; Jaime followed Addam's hand after a long delay.  “I’ll have Peck bring you some food.”

Crunching over the frozen slush of mud and ice, Jaime started to walk towards Addam’s tent when something compelled him to pause and turn back around.

“What’s going to happen to her?”

With a sharp inhale through his nose, Adam took a step forward and felt an awkward grimace try to rise to his lips.  “They’re going to take good care of her.  After she’s been washed and her armor has been repaired, the sisters will hold vigil and pray for Lady Brienne for one day.”  Jaime nodded like a small child who tried to follow a complicated story.  “Afterwards…”  

Jaime felt the blood drain from his face as a cold chill ran down his spine.  “Afterwards, we say goodbye.”  Jaime needlessly nodded his head again.  Addam continued.  “We still have a campaign to finish here, Ser. I’m going to choose ten soldiers to guard her on her journey back to Tarth.   _Good men_ ; men we can trust.  I've sent a raven and have secured passage for a ship that will sail directly to Tarth from Maidenpool. Might be good too for the Lady’s squire to go with ‘em; it can be his final act of service to her.”  

Addam watched Jamie's face with concern; it was so drawn and pale.  He continued. "I haven't...I haven't written to her father yet."  Jamie's eyes turned wide with understanding. "I thought it would be best if the news came from someone who...."  Addam twisted his shoulders with mild discomfort.  "If it were my daughter, I would want to hear the news from someone  who was..."  Addam couldn't finish his thought. He still hadn't figured out what the Maid of Tarth had meant to Jamie.

Nodding again like a simple child, Jamie answered Addam's open ended statement with a firm conclusion. "Yes. Of course. I will write to him this evening. A father..."  He felt his tongue turn thick. "A father has a right to know."

With a small frown , Jaime began to walk towards Addam's tent while a slow dawn of memory fell upon him. _There was the boy…Pod.  And Ser…Kyle, I think._  With a taste of obligation, Jaime inquired about them as well.  “What of the two that was with Brienne?  I haven’t—“

“Ser Hyle Hunt is still pretty banged up, but I think he’ll live.  He’s still over in the infirmary.  The boy, Pod; he’s…he’ll have a limp for a while, but he’s still young.”  Jaime looked down at his boots as they seemed to have sunk further into the icy mud.  “He came to see the Lady.  I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

Jaime wracked his memory, trying to remember the sight of a young squire who paid his respects to Brienne.  “I didn't know….”  Before Jaime could finish his thought he felt a swell of dizziness lay siege to his head.  Ser Addam's hands quickly grabbed hold of Jamie's arms as a rush of words came tumbling from his mouth.

  
“Whoa, whoa there!   _Easy_.  Let’s get you to a cot before you black out in the mud.  Peck!”  Jaime’s neglected squire came running towards Addam with only a single word.  “Let’s get Ser Jaime to a bed before he takes a nap in the dirt.”  

Feeling limp but not useless, Jaime dismissed any need for help with a shake of his head.  He marched on, feeling his dead legs stomp the snow and mud as he made his way towards Addam's tent

Weary and exhausted, Jaime dumped his body at the small writing table next to his friends cot; he felt his numb hand struggle as he stabbed at the partially frozen inkwell with a slow burn of frustration. For over an hour, Jamie stared at the blank parchment scroll, nonplussed.

Fat ink drops eventually fell from the quill and onto the parchment. He tried several times to begin, but each attempt he made read like failure from an uncaring stranger.

_How do I tell a stranger that his life is about to change forever?  How do I tell a father that his last surviving child was butchered to defend the Kingslayer?_

With at least a dozen aborted attempts crumpled at his feet, Jaime felt his anger rise with his frustration.  Each of the discarded notes were rejected for simple things: the words he chose were simply not good enough; blobs of ink smeared and dribbled on some; even a few failed attempts had spelling errors on it. Feeling tears beginning to collect in his eyes, Jamie dropped his quill with disgust and buried his face in his hand.

A few moments later, a strange peace fell upon Jamie; he felt himself turn blissfully hollow. In the still quiet of his mind, he allowed himself to be honest with his emotions; he could now think of the words he needed to say. With a thick drag of wine, Jamie pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began again, this time, with tenderness and clarity.

 

_To Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar;_

 

_Tonight, I can write the saddest lines:_

_Your daughter, Lady Brienne, is with us no more._

 

Somehow the words came tumbling from the quill and onto the paper. Jamie had wanted to pour his heart into the note but resisted; a father wanted to hear of his daughter's last moments of bravery, not the heartache of a total stranger.

Reviewing his words one last time, Jamie felt absurd sending such an important letter with the penmanship of a helpless child. Feeling little else than the pull of exhaustion, Jamie finally summoned Peck to have his message sent by raven.

A short time later, in the silence of a cold winters night, Jaime realized with numb awareness that Peck was making a considerable effort to remove the remainder of his Kingsguard armor as he remained sprawled out on the cot.  

Folding into the bed with little effort, Jaime tried to make a feeble objection about 'honor' and 'Brienne' before the darkness took a strong hold of him.  His last memory before sleep was the sight of Brienne’s squire, Podrick Payne, looking at Jaime through the flaps of Addam's tent. The young lad was bruised and bloodied and had a worried expression folded onto his face.

Feeling his breath hitch in his chest, Jaime whispered “Wench” before sleep made claim to his drunk and battered mind.

\---------------------------------------------        

Present:

All along the River Road, the long hand of war was seen and felt for miles in each direction.

Far too many shallow graves were littered near the roads; too many broken carts, scorched fields, rotting horses and crippled beggars were all found in surplus and with little effort.

Podrick Payne felt an eerie chill ride up his spine as Lady Brienne's procession finally turned onto the River Road. Often times, Pod would catch himself looking over his shoulder and try to see if he could find the Maid riding somewhere off at a distance behind. Only when he turned around to look over his shoulder does he realize that indeed, Lady Brienne rides with him; she was lying in state in the cart in front of him.

Chiding himself for his stupidity, Pod tried to distract himself from his thoughts by listening to the gentle rhythm of his horses shoes clopping against the ruts in the snow covered road.

In the front of the procession, two Lannister soldiers kept their voices at a respectful volume as they conversed among themselves.

A thin, middle aged soldier with a bald head and kind blue eyes awkwardly gnawed his way through a tough piece of salted horse meat; his name was Quincy.  "Why the shit are we sailing out from Maidenpool now?  There's plenty of harbors in the Saltpans."

A younger soldier with a thick build, wavy auburn hair and trusting brown eyes chomped his way through a mushy apple; bits of the soggy apple flesh flew from his mouth and landed unceremoniously onto his horses black mane; his name was Clint.  "Saltpans was just sacked, you cunt. You'll sooner find dragons to fly us to Tarth before you'll find a ship harbored there for passage."

Quincy sighed and spat out a piece of cartilage he found stuck to his horse meat. "Do ya think he loved her?"  Clint shot a confused look over at his companion; Quincy gestured back to the wooden cart with his shining bald head.

Clint shrugged and chucked his apple core with little grace. Quincy laughed quietly once he saw how ineffectual Clint's throwing skills actually were. "Kingslayer?"  

It was Quincy's turn to shrug now. Clint thought for a spell as his young face folded into a comical frown as he pondered further. "Septon said the lady was a maid, so I don't think..."

It took a considerable effort for Quincy to keep his laughter stifled.  "Boy, there's a world of difference between _fuckin'_ a maid and _lovin_ ' a maid. My money?  Kingslayer was a lovesick boy."

Using the point of his dagger to try and floss a piece of stubborn apple skin wedged in his teeth, Clint began to reply but found he could only speak in drooling vowels with a dagger fixed in his mouth. Fed up with him, Quincy haphazardly snatched the dagger from Clint's mouth and sighed in a mix of disgust and impatience.

"Oi!  You couldda cut my damn cheek!"  

Quincy's blue eyes glanced behind him at the procession in embarrassment; Clint's outburst had brought them to the attention of the silent sisters and half of the Lannister guards.

Seething with rage, Quincy threw Clint a dirty look while reprimanding his friend in a hissing tone.   _"Shut it, you frig."_  

Riding alongside in silence for a spell, Quincy began to shrink in his saddle as Clint's wounded, hangdog face could be seen from the corner of his eye. Feeling remorse, Quincy handed Clint back his dagger in a symbol for an apology. Clint paused; with little hesitation, he accepted his blade with a small nod of forgiveness while his brown eyes twinkled with mischief.

Clint continued. "What I was trying to say..."  Quincy rolled his eyes as Clint sheathed his dagger, "was that even if he was a 'lovesick boy,' he couldn't do a thing about. He's the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. His balls are twisted into a bloody vice once you say ‘em holy vows."

Shaking his head in amusement, Quincy stifled another laugh as they made their way through thick drifts of snow. "Boy, you can be so smart, and _sooo_ dumb at the same time."  Clint glared at his companion in annoyance. "There are vows, and there are words you only have to repeat. Nothing is as black an' white as we want them to be.  Now, I can vow to you, right now, that I'll never take a piss on your head. But, the moment you're head's set on fire, you can bet, without a doubt, I'll whip out my cock and piss in yer face when the timing is right."

Choking back a look if revulsion, Clint glared at Quincy with a blank face. "I don't know how to respond to that."  

Quincy smiled at Clint.

From the back of the procession a horse neighed in terror while a silent sister screamed. The crackle of fire and the smell smoke filled the dry winter air. And then, all hell broke loose.  

___________________________________________________________

 

Blood smeared hands held on tight to the sides of Brienne's funeral litter.  The white cloak of the Kingsguard that'd been draped over her body was now soiled by the splattered blood of Lannister guards.  Each man holding her body struggled and panted as they carried on.

The Maid of Tarth was heavier than was expected; then again, all of the dead feel heavier than expected.

Eight men shambled and tramped their way through the serpentine trail that led them through a dark tunnel; the sound of their shuffling boots and labored breathing accompanied the cool darkness that surrounded each of them.  Once the sound of a roaring waterfall began to fill the tunnel the men knew they were almost there.  Unlike their previous hideout in Hollow Hill, this place was not some dark nest of abomination or treachery.  Their home now was a ruined holdfast dating back to the Age of Heroes. Thick, white slabs of marble with black veins seemed to sprout from every direction within the tunnels and in the cave.  The stones were found everywhere; beneath wide patches of spongy moss, wedged between ancient weirwood trees and sunken in between timeworn head stones too faded to read.  These marble slabs were once the walls of a noble family that was once feared and admired; today those marble slabs were now places for outlaws to eat, sleep and rest their war rattled minds.

The men who carried Brienne were relieved to see the tunnel open up into a spacious, light filled cave that led to the floor of the underground waterfall.  The loud, rushing sound of water booming in their ears was now the sweet sound of their welcome home; spots of daylight could be seen from up high, piercing the smoky shadows of the underground waterfall with almost reverent shafts of light.  

Far from the base of the waterfall, all of the men settled the remains of Brienne down upon a wide marble slab with relief.  Looking at one another as they tried to catch their breath, a few men nodding their heads in approval at one another.  Small smiles for a job well done soon fell flat once another man entered the opening to the cave soon after.

His gait was slow but his bearing was tall and proud in the faded red robes that draped his body.  Walking with a gnarled, weirwood staff, Thoros of Myr made his way carefully over the icy patches that littered the floor of the cave.  His skin was looser than it had been, even grey looking in a certain light.  His once silver hair started to bleach to white, framing his head with an almost ethereal quality.  With a small smile he approached the body of Lady Brienne and felt his shoulders sag with relief.  He was pleased to see that the winter frost had preserved her so well.

With a small step forward, Thoros made his way to Brienne's side just as the brothers who surrounded her began to scatter away.  With a sure hand, twisted with thick veins and lean tendons, the Red Wizard placed his hand over Brienne's throat as a half smile flickered across his lips.

"Daughter of Fire...Bride of Ice...Slayer of Lies...Mother of Peace.  Rise.  Rise to become our evenstar, our warrior in our darkest hour."

The gentlest of kisses was blessed upon her lips.  The thick ribbons that crossed along Brienne's throat started to shiver with breath; her wide lips twitched and bloomed with color; long pale lashes began to flutter over her blackened lids.

 

Her bright blue eyes flashed back to life.

 

 

.

 

    

 

 

       

 

 

 

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah! Alright alright alright! 
> 
> Guess whose back in the game? Our Girl Brie! : )
> 
> I would like to say thank you for the incredible podcast "Close the Door and Come Here." If you love J/B and GOT analysis then this is the podcast for you. One of the brilliant ladies on the show asked the panel that if Jaime ever met Hyle Hunt, what sort of passive aggressive thing he would do to piss Hyle off? One of the ladies said that Jaime would intentionally call Hyle by the name of 'Kyle' just to get under his skin. Love that idea! 
> 
> The odd thing about writing this chapter was that I totally saw J.K. Simmons as Quincy and Chris Pratt as Clint. Huh.


	3. We Are Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fire is a welcoming sight; Jaime seeks retribution; there is an unexpected return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note there will be some talk of rape in this chapter.

The title for this chapter comes from another poem by Pablo Neruda. You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8496973-We-Are-Many-by-Pablo-Neruda) if you're interested.

 

**\---------------------------------  
  
**

The sound of a steady drip trembled with a stark echo deep within her alcove.  Her place, a snug recess buried deep within a tunnel, was close enough to hear the faint roar of the waterfall, but she was far enough from the rushing waters to keep her dry and safe.   
  
A great fire burned before her; she studied its movement in transfixed silence as cheery yellow and orange flames danced before her; a trail of black smoke licked the rough ceiling of the tunnel above, funneling out into a shaft located above the fire.   
  
Brienne considered the flames with such intent; how pretty it was, how lovely the bright fires rolled and crashed before her. She couldn't help but compare the fluid motions of the flames to be like that of the ocean waves surrounding her beloved home of Tarth. The steady snap and pop of burning wood became a lulling comfort to her and she soon felt her eyes grow heavy; a smothering pile of fur blankets nestled her deeper into her bed like a newborn swaddled for sleep.   
  
She loved the fire now; it had been Brienne's misfortune to now know the feeling of a deep, insidious cold that burrowed itself into the marrow of her bones: It was an evil, vaporous presence that wailed the ominous call to her eternal winter; it was dread and the doom of peril; it was decay and suffering; it was the heartbreak of conclusion and the immeasurable sorrow of 'what could have been.'  
  
Several dull aches throbbed in her throat. Thoros of Myr had assured her it was a good sign; it had meant that the flesh of her throat was healing itself properly. Furrowing her brow in pain, Brienne tried to raise her hand to touch her throat but quickly failed; her hand felt far too heavy to raise up from her chest. Sinking back into her blankets with a low moan, Brienne tilted her head to the side to move closer to the warmth.   
  
Careful footfalls began to echo closer to her alcove; the accompanying _click click_ of a wooden staff assured Brienne it was only Thoros coming in to check on her. With a heavy sigh, Brienne rested her eyes and waited for the approach of her caretaker.   
  
"We need to stop meeting like this."   
  
Brienne smiled up at Thoros' gentle tease in spite of her bone deep exhaustion.  A disjointed part of herself was pleased to note that the deep gash across her lips no longer felt as painful as it had been earlier. Tilting her head towards the Red Wizard, Brienne felt her throat tense and spasm with pain.   
  
With the clatter of his weirwood staff, Thoros of Myr took a knee to Brienne's side and carefully touched her face. "I know it's awful. I know it's a pain that burns, but by this time tomorrow you will be much improved." A small tremble in his fingers could be felt as he brushed them across the clammy flesh of Brienne's face.   
  
"Is there anything for the pain?"    
  
Thoros shook his head with a small, sorrowful look. "The pain is necessary, I'm afraid. Without it we can not assess what has fully healed and what remains to be mended. I know you suffer, but this pain will pass soon."  
  
There were other pains too, ones that agonized Brienne's mind as well as her body. The memory of her last moments alive still made her feel anxious and fearful in spite of the fact that she was now, somehow, alive.   
  
It was His voice that still lingered in her ears; it was the chilling sound of His fear; His desperate pleads for her to live and fight. It was the memory of His anger and tears that still twisted Brienne's heart more than any of the misery she knew from a slow death.   
  
Thoros began to stroke the curling, pale hair from the side of her face and tried to tuck it behind her ear.

 _Father would do that when I was sick._   

"I know you suffer in other ways too. The final moment of death is a varied experience; some pass from this world with little knowledge they were about to die. Those deaths, though rare, are a true blessing. Others, like yourself, knew great suffering and anguish. Unfortunately, with a death like yours...the emotional weight... the trauma can still linger, even after resurrection. Much like the ripples in a pond after a rock has been thrown in, or the smell of a fire long after the flames are put out."

  
This admission was a cold comfort to Brienne.  To know that her lingering trauma was understood by another allowed her for a tear to fall without fear or pride. Thoros continued with a fatherly tone as he pushed pale blonde hairs back from the other side of her face.    
  
"Did you hear their prayers?"  
  
Brienne gasped. So startled by his question, she felt her eyes snap wide open with a stunning comprehension.  

_I wasn't going mad; I did hear them..._

Thoros felt his face crease in sympathy as he watch her face crumble in mourning.  With a thin gasp of air, she nodded, her mouth silently trembled out the word 'yes.'  
  
"That..."  Thoros rubbed his fingers over his chin with a thoughtful gaze. "That is the most painful part of this whole...process. It's one thing to know your suffering; it's yours and it belongs only to you. But to hear their prayers, to feel and know their suffering too; for all those who mourn you, love you...that is the worst pain of all."    
  
In the darkness, in the unrelenting cold of her eternal winter, Brienne could hear the mournful prayers of those she loved: her dear father with his unwavering love, she felt his strength falter and break like a tower made of sand; Pod, with his tender heart, he mourned for her like a second mother; even Hyle Hunt mourned, much to Brienne’s surprise; she even heard the thoughts and prayers of Lannister soldiers she had never met. From the septon's burial blessing to the silent sisters, even from strangers who briefly thought of her as her procession passed through the Riverlands, she heard all of their prayers of mourning. But the most painful of all, the most grievous for her to bare was to know the boundless pain that Jaime had felt from her passing.   
  
_Still feels_ , she thought distressingly.  
  
Taking a clean rag from a pile nearby, Thoros dried Brienne's tears with a weak smile.

To live her whole life and to feel so alone, so unwanted, it was a heavy burden that Brienne learned to carry, effortlessly, throughout her years. But to die; to die and to know the truth, finally; to know that she was respected, that she truly was loved...the ache she felt was without measure. The horrible truth was she had very little experience with such kindness, such love; to know that such a rare feeling had existed for her now felt like receiving a warm hug after a hundred years of solitude.  
  
 _I was such a fool. How could I have ever convinced myself it would be alright to never know such love?_    
  
Her tears may have been bitter, but they were few; there were still too many confusing thoughts, fears and questions that combined and clashed together.    
  
"Why... _why_ did you bring me back?  I don't understand..."  The words sounded so weak and labored under her panted breaths.  Everything had become a terrible effort for her: to breathe, to speak, to turn her head and to listen all became exhausting endeavors.  Brienne longed to melt inside the sweet pull of a healing sleep; but still, she couldn't.  Every time she tried, she began to feel the cold slide of fear cross her face; it was the memory of closing her eyes at the moment of her death, a feeling still too fresh to ignore.  
  
A moment passed, then two. The crack of the fire and the tenacious drip that echoed in her cloister filled the void that such a pointed question left in its wake. Brienne began to dread the length of Thoros' silence; he acquiesced, reluctantly.   
  
"That night..."  He swallowed hard as the memory of her death tethered his words to his mouth. Determined, he continued. "The night you had passed, I was filled with such..."  
  
"Obligation?"  
  
Brienne's hard tone startled Thoros' careful path towards an explanation. In spite of her accusatory tone he was quietly relieved to hear her sounding less fragile.  
  
"Obligation...aye. Perhaps. But it was not my guilt that led me back to you. That night, the flames spoke to me. And I was filled with such dread, such..."  He sighed.  "Terror.  Terror by what may be if you were not brought back to us."    
  
Brilliant blue eyes began to dart across Thoros' face, it was a look that was divided between incredulity and fear.  Licking her lips, she felt her brow fold with determination. Thoros continued without any pleasure in his admission.   
  
"A darkness grows in King's Landing. An abomination; a great perversion to this world has been bred, and with it follows the damnation for us all if you do not defeat it."  The air grew still in Brienne's chest; she needed to hear more.    
  
"How am I to defeat such treachery?  Who am I to..."  
  
Feeling his dread climb, Thoros continued with a slight edge to his voice as he gazed out at the flames with worry stitched across his features. "There is a...creation that exist today because of dark arts.  A true knight was once thought of as someone who could be a worthy opponent for such...corruption. Those days, sadly, no longer belong to us. All of the true knights are dead; the only ones that exist today linger either in memory or in lore. It is believed that this perversion that exists today can not be struck down. At least, not by any...living man."    
  
The narrative began to connect; slowly, Thoros' meaning began to materialize for her, piece by broken piece. If Brienne was able to escape the frost laced claws of death, then surely it was possible that such powers could belong to another. And if such powers could be wielded, who could form such an atrocity to inspire fear in a man like Thoros?  
  
Under the heavy fur blankets, lying so close to a roaring fire, Brienne considered all of the darkest possibilities she could fathom and shivered.   
  
  
  
  
  
\-------------------------------------------  
Present:  
  
  
  
  
A charred inn that had once been the home to a fabled knight was now surrounded by Lannister armies. It was an hour before dawn and howling winds screamed across the terrain with icy snow, lashing at Jaime’s face with impunity.    
  
 _I feel nothing._  
  
In truth he felt everything; there was a shiver in his ribs that never seemed to cease; his face felt raw and pocked with sleet as the winds roared around him; the leather from his glove started to turn stiff with a glaze of ice; his stomach growled with hunger but he couldn't bring himself to eat; he was exhausted but dreaded the pull of dark dreams and haunted memories.   
  


Clenching his fist, Jaime felt his nostrils flare and his breathing turn shallow as the glaze of ice on his glove began to lift and shatter.  Green eyes narrowed with hate in the dim glow of a predawn sky.

He ached for Brienne.

 

__________________________________________________

Earlier that day:

 

Two soldiers dragged in a starved boy, bound in chains, into the Lord Commander’s tent.  They threw the weakened prisoner down at Jaime Lannister's feet with satisfaction and pride; the child bound in chains may have been no more than five and ten. Jaime tried not wince at the bleeding gash on his forehead; his blood obscured most of his face.  The boys sharp cheekbones had been carved out by hunger, he looked far older than he should have been.  The prisoner gagged on blood and spat out a shard of his tooth with a small sob; Jaime looked down at the young man and tried to feel no sympathy.   
  
“This here is the fella I told ya about, Ser.”  The Lannister soldier beamed at his commanding officer with a grim joy.  “That rapist we hanged told us all about this lad; told us where we could find 'em too.”  With a swift boot heel to the spine, the starved captive fell in an unceremonious heap, landing hard upon his bleeding face.    
  
The other soldier spoke up. “The rapist said that this here boy was the one who supplied the Brotherhood in these parts.  Food, medicine, supplies and even weapons, Ser.  We found him hiding under some floorboards at the windmill, just like the scum promised. This lil' prick charged at us with a pike, so we returned the favor with a mace, Ser.”  
  
A pitiful weeping filled the tent as the Lannister soldiers looked down upon their captive in amusement. Jaime studied the soldiers faces and felt a shadow of disgust roll across his mouth. As the weeping continued Jaime feigned disinterest; he walked over to his desk with a gradual pace.  Memories of Lord Bolton filled Jaime's mind; memories of a very uncomfortable dinner at Harrenhal. _She wore that hideous pink gown_. With his back turned to all three, Jaime leisurely poured himself a glass of water and spoke in a soft voice. "You are excused."  
  
Both soldiers looked up at their commanding officer's back and began to sputter with disbelief; they had been expecting praise and rewards, but in turn they felt slighted. Speaking with objection to the back of Jaime's crimson and gold armor, the second soldier spoke up with an edge to his voice. "Ser. This boy here is the one the rapist told us about before we--"  
  
Without turning his back, Jaime slammed the iron water pitcher down to the table with a loud crack; Jaime winced at himself. _That was poorly done_. Composing his anger, he repeated his words with the same voice he'd used before.  All three men waited in a thick silence as they strained to hear the commander's words.   
  
"I said: You are excused."    
  
With reluctance, both Lannister soldiers wandered out of the Lord Commander's tent, leaving Jaime and the chained prisoner alone. With their removal, Jaime turned around to find the boy still kneeling on the floor; the sound of his muffled weeping stuttered behind his blood swollen lips. Kneeling before him with a vigilant pace, Jaime handed his captive a glass of water. Startled, the young man looked up at Jaime with wide eyes; they were a startling whiteness contrasted against a lean face covered in both dirt and blood.   
  
Sensing his natural reluctance, Jaime made a weak smile quirk to one side of his face, silently offering the water again, but with more camaraderie than with a sense of dominion.   _Right now, I am your greatest enemy and your finest ally_.   
  
Exhausted from paranoia, the starved prisoner fumbled for the glass of water from Jaime's hand, smearing dead blood all along the rim of the glass. With gratitude he drank the contents greedily as if he were stealing gulps from the finest wine ever to bless his tongue . Gasping from his last swallow, the prisoner closed his eyes in gratitude as Jaime peeled the glass from his hands and exchanged it for a clean towel.  
  
"What is your name?"  
  
A moment passed; fresh tears fell down the captive's lean face, his forehead and mouth began to warp from crying.  Through gulping sobs the boy replied with a shuddering voice; it was woefully resigned to an inevitable fate.   
  
"Does it even matter now?"  
  
"A name matters."  Jaime seated himself against the edge of the table, arms crossed casually over his chest. Looking down, he continued. "A name is more powerful than you can give credit to.  Long ago, I was once called the Young Lion; The Lion of Lannister; but now I am called many other things: Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Former Warden of the East.  Man Without Honor; Oathbreaker, Kingslayer, Cripple. But my name? My name is Jaime."  The lad was as still as a pillar; Jaime continued. "Please. What is your name?"  
  
The prisoner stared up at his captor with a stunned silence. The starved boy lowered his wounded brown eyes as he began to mop up the blood from his face with the clean rag; his tears fell with no effort.   
  
"Dayne, Ser."  A fresh sob rolled from the boys chest. "My...my father...he named me after Ser Arthur Dayne; the Sword of the Morning. He was the knight who once defended my grandmother against rapists. She tried to fight them off but couldn't, so they gouged both her eyes out with their thumbs.  Before they could do anything else, Ser Arthur heard her screams and soon found 'em.  He killed the lot of 'em with his blade, Dawn.  As tribute, my grandmother named her firstborn son Arthur."  The young captive swallowed hard as more tears streamed down his face. "He...he became my father...and my father named me Dayne, in memory of his mother."    
  
Jaime felt a small smile crawl across his face; the blade that once knighted him was also the same blade that defended Dayne's grandmother against rapists, years ago.  Dayne never noticed Jaime's smile, he was trying to find a place where his towel hadn't been soaked through with his own blood; he had wanted to wipe the dirt from out his eyes. Jaime handed Dayne another clean towel.  
  
"Dayne.  I'm sorry to say that a rather terrible man had the misfortune of making your acquaintance.  This man said you had supported the Brotherhood Without Banners. You seem a little young to be the mastermind of such an endeavor.  Now, I'm _very_ interested in what you have to say about that."  Each word Jaime spoke fell in the air with a significant weight, all carefully unpacked and laid out before Dayne as if he were about to make a purchase for own his fate.   
  
Cleaning his eyes again with the fresh towel, Dayne dropped the blemished rag and lowered his head in submission. "My father, Ser. My father was a leal servant to the Freys. At the Red Wedding...he lost both my mother and sister at the Twins that night. _They were only there to cook for the wedding feast,_ they didn't take part in what they did to either Stark or Tully!  Some men there said they found Frey arrows in me mum's neck; my sister had most of her body burnt to a crisp, they found her in the Stark tent used for the soldier's feasting. He found about the Brotherhood only last year and helped supply their provisions!"  
  
Jaime's voice quickly turned to acid. "While you did _what_ , exactly?"    
  
"I helped my father steal food for the Brotherhood. I...I pillaged a healer's supply cabinets for medicine; I helped repair damaged armor and stole fresh horses for 'em. I wanted vengeance, b...but not like that!"   
  
Dayne's voice began to warble as he struggled to breath through his heaving chest. Jaime studied the boy's wounded eyes. They were sad, yes; but, they were honest.   
  
"What does that mean, ' _not like that_ '?  What did you expect the Brotherhood to do? Have a polite conversation with all of their captives; try to persuade every Lannister and Frey to nobly fall upon their own swords instead of what they've done?"  
  
"I didn't...I didn't _think_! Ser, I didn't think it would be such butchery!  I saw the bodies...there were bodies hung everywhere!  I didn't imagine it could be like that.  I thought..."  Dayne's voice started to crack with the pain of disillusionment.  His voice dropped to a shameful whisper. "The Brotherhood was supposed to be better than that.  I thought they would deliver justice; bring some sense of honor."  
  
Honor. That word burned like ice on an open wound. _What did this ignorant pup know of honor?_  Jaime felt his stomach roil in disgust as this young man, Dayne, wept again like a heartbroken child. _You may be named after an honorable knight, but that's the end of your honor, boy._  
  
Suddenly exhausted, Jaime scrubbed his hand over his beard and then rubbed his weary eyes. "By rights, your head should be mounted on a pike right now. Both you and your father's--".   
  
"My father, Ser?   _My father is dead!_  They hanged him!  The man on that tree is...is my..."  
  
Dayne cowered under the weight of his own loss, weeping his silent tears of devastation.   
  
According to Ser Addam, a man from a nearby village was caught raping one of the washer woman from the Lannister camp down by the creek. The man had beaten the girl bloody; punching her face so hard that one of her eyelids was split in two. By the time anyone had arrived to stop him it was too late; the rapist had his way and the woman was left bloodied and broken.  The man who now hanged from that tree was that rapist; that rapist was Dayne's father, Arthur; the man who tried to buy his life with his own son's.   
  
The gravity of this revelation began to fall upon Jaime as if it were launched at him from a trebuchet. The idea of 'honor' left a bitter taste in his mouth; the concept had felt as ridiculous and as absurd as watching a lead bird trying to take flight.   
  
Both pity and revulsion tainted Jaime's thoughts. Disjointedly, he wondered what Ser Arthur Dayne would have done if he had been forced to deal with his namesake just as Jaime was forced to do now.   
  
Without question, Arthur, the man who raped the Lannister washer woman, would have died at any rate had Jaime been forced to judge on his own.  As for his son, the one who now cowered at his feet, he was forced to make a choice.   
  
In his heart, Jaime began to wonder what Brienne would have told him.   
  
Feeling resolute, the Lord Commander slowly kneeled before Dayne and rested his right arm across his knee. The sight of his jagged wrist, all puckered and shiny with healed flesh was now in direct sight of Dayne. Once he heard his shuddering breath go still, Jaime spoke with a hard delicacy.  
  
"By any other name, I would have you hang by the neck, on that tree," Jaime motioned to the hanging tree outside his tent with a jerk of his chin, "next to your monstrous father."    
  
Dayne shook his head in agreement. Hope started to rise in his wounded brown eyes. "I will spare your life under one condition."  Dayne felt his eyes turn wide with anxiety. "You tell me of those who supported the Brotherhood, _in any way_. You tell me where to find them and if you deliver, I will spare your pathetic life and give you a new one with the Night's Watch. Do you understand?"  
  
Continuing the tarnished legacy of his father, Dayne agreed and told Jaime everything there was to know about the sympathizers for the Brotherhood. Unlike his father though, Dayne would not end up on a tree like Arthur had. With a belly full of food and a healer treating his facial wounds, Dayne agreed to purge his intelligence for the price of his life.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

Present:

And so they stood, mounted and prepared to battle outside of a charred inn that had once belonged to a fabled knight. Dayne had explained that this dilapidated inn was the hub where supporters and suppliers had met to treat with the Brotherhood.   
  
Dreading an outright skirmish, unaware if any insider were affiliated to either Stark or Tully, Jaime decided it would be best to take the occupants of the ruined inn by unawares and lay siege in the dead of night.  
  
At twenty abreast, Lannister soldiers held to flaming arrows pointed directly at both sides of the sleeping inn. With a strong wave of his hand, the Lord Commander gave a silent order to have the archers lose their arrows and set the inn to flame.

Fiery arrows streaked across the black and midnight blue of the predawn sky, raining down terror against the lingering black frost of night. With a deep thrum, all arrows made its mark as the inn lit into a hungry bonfire; set against the swirl of sleet and ice, snowflakes twisted and danced all around the rising fires in perfect symphony.

Screams within the charred building could be heard; the intent was never to kill the occupants, merely to smoke them out and force them out into the cold for their own survival. Jaime had given the archers explicit orders to only aim for the straw and clapboard roof and to keep clear from any windows or doors to ensure the safe exit of the occupants . Dayne had assured Jaime that there only existed a root cellar beneath the inn and there were no connecting tunnels that led to an escape for the sympathizers of the Brotherhood.

Glass windows shattered in desperation as billows of plum-black smoke came pouring out. Faces, young and old stuck their heads out of shattered windows, gagging, choking for fresh air; soon enough, the occupants came shambling out in bed clothes or half dressed in fear.

By Dayne's best estimation, there should have been no more than sixty occupants within the old inn. As the flames began to rise and roar to its full, an assembly of defeated, soot covered faces assembled in surrender to the Lannister soldiers; their count was at sixty two.  

Dead eyes watched the fire as every able bodied man and woman stood to be shackled and led off for interrogation. A hollow weeping could be heard once the line of prisoners had marched away. Near a crumbling stone well, Jaime saw a man cradle the dead body of his son. Smoke inhalation claimed his tiny life. The little one was golden hair against an ashen skin and blue lips; the child was no older than eight. He bore a startling resemblance to his son, Tommen.

He blinked heavily as if his eyes had turned to stone; Jaime felt his reserves shudder in the light of the great bonfire. _I don't belong here. My place is with my king; my place is with my son_.

Feeling the leaden weight of failure placed squarely on his shoulders, Jaime relinquished his desire for retribution as a piercing migraine began to climb up the back of his neck.

  
As the faint light of a peach soft dawn broke through the inky line of trees, a small band of Lannister soldiers was seen hobbling towards their encampment with a low, haggard spirit.  With a drop in his stomach, Jaime soon realized he was now looking at the bloodied remainder of men who were sent out to escort Brienne's body back to Tarth. Only three Lannister soldiers remained, along with eight silent sisters; Pod was nowhere to be seen; none of the horses could be found.  But worst of all, the wagon holding Brienne's remains was missing.    
  


Far off in the distance, in the midst of the emerald black forest, Jaime imagined seeing Brienne of Tarth watching him.  High on her horse, dressed in her navy blue armor, Brienne appeared to be cold, hollow and far removed.  As she narrowed her eyes at him through the trailing smoke of the inn, she turned her head away in disgust.  Kicking the sides of her horse, she rode off, never glancing back at him as the gathering fog swallowed her whole. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pod lives, I promise!
> 
> Thank you again to everyone for your kind words and your amazing support!


	4. Walking Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime suffers another loss; Brienne begins to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who is reading this fic! I feel incredibly touched by how much support this story has received.  
> I remember first reading J/B fanfic at the start of this year on AO3 and now I am taking part in the writing community...it's exciting!  
> Goes to show, a lot can happen in six months. OK, gonna stop now...on to the angst!

The title from this chapter is a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Walking-Around) if you're interested.  

 

\--------------------------------------------

Present:

 

He tramped his way through the thick forest grounds with long, awkward steps.

Though the fresh snowfall was high in the fields and on the roads, here in the deepest part of the woods, under a thick canopy of trees, most of the grounds here were bare.

With shambling, uncoordinated steps, Jaime’s boots stumbled over the thick overgrowth of grass and weeds bitten by frost and snow. Tall, imposing ferns with curling arms brushed past his knees with every faltering step; a thick bed of yellow and hazel pine needles carpeted the way to his unknown path.  Brittle twigs cracked and snapped as he wandered; the sweetened tang of tree sap filled Jaime’s nose as his heavy shoulder scraped against the rugged bark of pine trees.     

Every breath he exhaled crystallized into the freezing air; white clouds of condensation materialized and evaporated just as he pushed his way deeper into the emerald blue forest.  The deeper he got, the rougher the terrain became.  A concealed rock buried beneath the shadows of dense holly branches caused him to stumble gracelessly.  He stumbled but he did not fall; his pride would not let him fall.

There were black spots that started to float before his eyes as his headache pummeled inside his skull.  Every tendon in his neck started to scream with agony as he haphazardly scanned the forest line ahead of him.  His eyes turned wild with panic as the black spots in his sight started to grow darker and merge; his unseeing eyes darted into every murky corner, searching, needing, hoping.    

Exhausted, he stopped. The silence of the shadowy forest had become deafening.  Jaime wrapped his arms around the tree nearest to him while his head pounded and his vision turned blurry.  Heavy breathing started to slow as the white plumes of his breath began to swell.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------

Earlier:    

 

The three remaining Lannister guards were ashamed they had failed their commander.  

As the last of the Brotherhood sympathizers were finally led away, thick curls of black smoke still lingered over the burn pile that had once been a dilapidated inn.  

The father who lost his son carried his tiny body within his fire scorched arms. Thick swatches of blood-red and pus-white bubbles covered his hands and forearms, holding the boy's limp little body with tenderness. The fathers stunned face remained bowed over his son's pale and waxy expression; from a distance it would appear as if he was only a father carrying his sleepy child to bed. Watching this all unfold from a distance Jaime could feel the back of his neck ache as the space behind his eyes began to throb.

Leading his horse back towards the returning Lannister guards in dread, Jaime imagine a hundred different horrors that befell Brienne's remains. Feeling himself grow sick he slowly dismounted from his horse as his lean jaw clenched with a pain that climbed to his throbbing temples.

The event was consistently reported with sparse words from each of the guards, each sounding rattled as they shared their own account. The three were questioned separately by Jaime and each time the story remained the same:

With a few miles east on the River Road, heavy snow drifts began to make the procession a slow and difficult journey.   At a narrow bend in the road, one guard at the rear of the procession fell from his horse; they found an arrow had been shot into his eye. The assault came from above from either the trees that surrounded the path or the high stone embankments that lined the road.

Half a dozen arrows were set to flame before they landed into the wooden cart containing Brienne. The dry wood of the cart fed the flames as another Lannister guard at the center of the procession was felled from his horse; two arrows landed their mark, one in the throat and one in the chest.

Silent sisters hollered and panicked; horses from the dead soldiers reared their wild heads and screamed as the fires became a threat to their safety.  The third and fourth soldier died by spear; one had been thrusted into the back and the other had one thrust into his chest. The outlaws began to descend upon the cart from both sides of the embankments just as the fire started to swell.

One Lannister guard saw four men pull out Brienne's remains from the cart before the fires could claim her body.  He briefly watched them strap her litter to a long sled as the remaining guards fought off the bandits with their swords; once the archers had abandoned their higher ground advantage the remaining outlaws fought the guards until the archers were at a safe distance and long gone.  The fifth Lannister guard suffered a great sword wound against the base of his spine; his death had been a slow one.

Though outnumbered, the Lannister guards killed a total of six bandits, one even managed to slice a man's head clean off. The horses that did survive the attack were stolen by the outlaws; the remaining horses were slaughtered to prevent any of the guards to give chase to them in the forest.  

The Maid's squire, Podrick Payne, did well and held his own. With Oathkeeper in his hands he killed one outlaw and fought off another, leaving one bandit a cripple by cutting his arm clean off at the shoulder.

Once the fire had consumed the cart, all of the remaining horses were either dead or dying. Before nightfall the silent sister performed funeral rites for both guards and bandits while Podrick and the remaining soldiers made their way into the forest to search for a trail the bandits had set off on. With little daylight left, they made the hard decision to make camp behind one of the stone walls of the embankment for the night. By dawn, heavy snowfalls had obscured any evidence of the attack on the road, including the dead horses, the blood splattered ground and the deep ruts of the sled used to spirit away Brienne.

With no way to get back to the Lannister encampment sooner, the remaining guards made another tough decision. Because Oathkeeper still remained it was decided that they would have Pod proceed to Tarth with the Lady's blade just so Brienne's father could have at least _something_ to mourn from her passing. Two Lannister guards were chosen to escort the boy on the ship for his journey to Tarth.  Because the silent sisters no longer had a body to escort back, they agreed to return with the remaining three guards instead.

As Jaime listened to each soldier’s account unfold, he could feel his eyes grow sensitive to the fresh light of a rising dawn. With a lurch in his stomach, Jaime's face turned pale and blank once he dismissed the third and final soldier upon completing his report of the events.

Once all of the accounts had been shared, the guards that remained had been mournfully dismissed so that they could have their injuries be treated by a healer.

All words escaped Jaime.  No thought could manifest in his mind with any certain clarity; his only reaction to these turn of events was his subconscious longing to make things right.

Remembering how he had imagined Brienne watching him off in the far distance while the inn burned down, Jaime silently melted into the activity of the campgrounds and started to make his way into the dense, fog lined forest.

 

He was searching for Brienne.

 

 

\------------------------------------

Present:

 

Holding onto the pine tree with a determined hand, Jaime felt his knees grow slack as his head began to bow down. Great, heaving breaths rose and fell; small white clouds trailed out of his mouth and nose as his breathing grew thin and more rapid. He started to hyperventilate.

He remember the last time he started to panic like this: the night following his mother's burial, Jaime wandered into his father's room with tears in his eyes, asking if it would be alright for him to climb into bed with his father for just one night.

Tywin looked down at his son with a blank expression and simply told him that crying was the mark of weakness in a man. With a brusque word his father summoned for the maester to escort Jaime back to his own bed. With heartbreak, he watched the heavy oak door to his father's bedchamber close as the iron bolt locks slid into place to keep him out. In the dark shadow of his father's hallway, Jaime started to panic; through gasping sobs that soon turned thin and shallow, the maester soon gave the little lord a dose of dream wine to help him sleep alone in his bed that night.

Jaime was seven years old.

Desperate to breathe, Jaime began to unclasp the gold and crimson armor from his arms and chest. Once the breastplate was finally removed, he could feel his mouth begin to salivate. Gulping back the excess moisture, his breathing began to return to normal as an invisible punch started to hollow out his stomach.

Thoughts of Brienne's corpse filled his mind. With horror, he imagined all of the terrible things that might have come to her remains. He imagines her beautiful armor stripped from her body and sold off, piece by piece, for only a few copper stars.  He imagines her body desecrated by butchers, cannibals or sexual deviants. He imagines her lying naked, bloodless and rotting in a ditch or in some freezing stream somewhere, alone and unloved; he imagined wolves feasting on her remains; imagined a bear snapping at her bones to feast upon her marrow.

Hunched over, he started to gagged.  With tired eyes he spat out a thick wad of spit onto a bed of ferns. Another deep gag filled his chest. He opened his mouth, more saliva washed over his tongue. Leaning his head against the tree he felt the worst was behind him.  And then he threw up.

Thick bile washed over his tongue before it splattered on to the tree, fern fronds and pine needles. Lingering strands of yellow-white bile clung to his beard just as a bone rattling shiver crawled across his back. Thick ropes of saliva gathered from his lips; he spat them out onto the ferns with another cold shudder.

Slowly gathering himself against the tree, Jaime panted as a burning trace of bile lingered in his nostrils. The black spots in his vision slowly began to recede.

As he buried his forehead into the rough bark of the tree again, Jaime angrily swiped at his tearing eyes with disgust.  

 

He knew in his heart that Brienne was now lost forever.  

 

\----------------------------------------------------

Two weeks later:

 

 

The flashing sound of swords scraping and ringing felt good to Brienne. She could barely hear the deafening sound of the waterfall over the bright song of steel against steel.

Every thrust, stroke, pivot and turn became more refined, more elegant for Brienne as the days passed in slow succession. Her footwork still struggled, but in light of the horrible trauma she had endured, she was simply grateful she could stand at all.

As her heavy blade clattered to the ground again, Brienne quietly swore to herself as she bent down to retrieve it; she could feel a trail of sweat slide down the length of back as thick locks of her drenched hair fell into her eyes.

"Lady Brienne.  Please try not grimace before you strike; it makes your counter moves more predictable."  

Her opponent was tall, strong and polite; once a bannerman for the Starks, Ser Gavin Bower joined the Brotherhood without Banners shortly after the Red Wedding. He was a quiet man, not one prone to chatter; Ser Gavin had coppery red hair and pale white skin that showcased his freckles with ease.  Rising up her blade up over her left arm, Brienne tried to keep her face placid as they continued their sparring session.

Hours passed; the way the light shifted within the cave, Brienne knew it was almost time for the evening meal. Lowering their swords in completion, Ser Gavin nodded his head in silent praise as he shook the Lady's hand for a match well fought. Between heaving breaths, Brienne nodded as well and shook his hand in return.  Taking the heavy sword from out her clutches, Brienne whispered a 'thank you' as her opponent stalked away into a dark recess with a hulking silence. Not for the first time, Brienne cringed as Gavin lumbered off on his own.

_Gods be good; was I always that silent?  No wonder Jaime would ramble all of the time; I must have bored him to tears...I just thought he was in love with the sound of his own voice._

Feeling a sweet ache pull between her shoulder blades, Brienne stretched her arms up over her head as she looked up above her in the main chamber of the airy cave. Noncommittally, she followed the path of lazy pigeons as they crossed over the spots of light that still lingered within. Closing her eyes against the soft filter of the dying sun, she felt her breathing fall into an even pace as the crash of the waterfall filled her ears.

The memory of her last moments with Jaime flashed before her eyes. Startled, she dropped her arms and looked fearfully around her.

_I'm safe. No one here is going to harm me._

A hard shiver rolled through Brienne's body as her heartbeat slammed against her chest; the fine mist from the waterfall began to gather on her skin, chilling her faster than she wanted after intense training. Looking back up at the crowning height of the waterfall, she could see petrified weirwood trees wrap around the craggy ledges of the cave.  A gathering of ravens looked down upon her from the highest branch, quorking and pecking with a strange intensity. Feeling as if though she were being watched, Brienne slowly lowered her head back down.  

"There you are my la--"

"Oh gods!"  Shivering hands clasped over her open mouth while Brienne's blue eyes turned wide in fear. A thin woman named Beth nearly jumped out of her own skin while Brienne dragged one palm over her pounding heart.  "Gods! _I'm sorry._ I'm so...I didn't--"

Tucking a long strand of greasy black hair behind her ear, Beth Bower, lady wife to Ser Gavin, tried to calm herself as well as she fought the need to cower under Brienne's stately form. "No worries my lady.  I was asked to send for you; Thoros would like a word with you in the pink hall when you have a moment."

Pacing the shallow breathing through her nose, Brienne pinched her wide lips between her horsey teeth and nodded with a shameful squint of her eyes. A long, cleansing sigh rolled from her mouth; looking back down she saw Beth look up at her in worry.

Rattled and foolish, Brienne forced herself to morph her anxieties into a conciliatory smile, easing the young woman in front of her.  "May I go change first?"

"Of course my lady; Thoros will be waiting for you when you are ready."  

Brienne watched Beth's retreating form as the darkness swallowed the young woman into a gloomy tunnel.  She considered the thin woman's nervous eyes and her shrinking posture.

_What must she think of me?  What must these people think of me?  Do they believe I will somehow turn into another Stoneheart?_

The clucking sound of the ravens above started to build into a clattering frenzy as their rolling quarks soon melted into a chilling chorus of calls.  A fluttering of wings collided into the song of eerie croaks and gurgles; feathers swished, wings fell wide and the patter of flapping rose high and melted into the high mists above.  

Perplexing ideas crossed Brienne's mind. She wondered what the birds had spoken of.

_Were they trying to speak to me?  Perhaps they were only laughing...  No.  No._

_Remember the prayers._

Feeling the air turned frigid once the sun had fully set, Brienne wrapped her arms tightly around her body and walked in a brisk pace towards her alcove.

 

It was a delight to see a fire burn so brightly for her; some people who served the ragged assembly of outlaws now tended to a roaring fire in her cloister all day.  With slow, careful movements Brienne peeled away her drenched training clothes near the enticing warmth of her fire. Goose pimples peppered her damp flesh; in the gold light of her room Brienne considered her war torn body with complete fascination.

Most of the scars she could identify from memory; others scars however, those she couldn't identify, always left her with a pregnant pause.  Undoubtedly, these new scars were the direct result of her trial with Stoneheart: one thick line of pale white flesh crossed from her left hipbone and over into the flesh of her stomach at a downward angle; thick sword bites slashed down her right forearm like the shocking path of a lightning bolt that seared itself onto her flesh; the thick slash across her lips was now fully healed but it still looked swollen, full and bitten.

To her surprise, Biter's mark of feasting on her blemished cheek looked much improved; a strange pinch of shiny pink flesh puckered curiously underneath the apple of her cheek. Oddly enough, the wound was beginning to shrink, but it still itched like the blazes. It was the angry wound on her neck though that still amazed her every time she felt it.

A small looking glass was left in her room shortly after she gained consciousness from her resurrection. Blood chilling nightmares terrified Brienne in her sleep.  As her strangled screaming echoed down the tunnel and reverberated into the main cave, people would rush to sooth her, trying to prevent her from hurting herself in her half-conscious struggles.

The first evening the night terrors assaulted her, Brienne screamed and battled; she mistakenly believing that the fire before her meant that she was cast down into the seven hells following her death. Shushing and soothing, one person held up a small looking glass to assure her in a firm tone that 'wounds _do not mend_ in the seven hells.' Baffled by the healing flesh on her throat and on her mouth, Brienne held on tight to the looking glass in a cold sweat as she slowly drifted back to sleep.

Removing the wide gauze from around her neck, Brienne now stood completely bare before the fire with the small mirror in her hands. The white scar across her throat started with a wide base at the left side of her neck, just a hand's width beneath her ear. Her fingers trembled as she traced the white and pink scar, following the strong trail across her throat with a shiver.

_"Please. Please stay with me.  Don't leave me here alone."_

Clasping the small looking glass between her palms, Brienne closed her eyes against the painful flood of memories that assaulted her heart.

_Jaime..._

 

\-------------------------------

 

Dressed in blue breeches, a loose grey tunic and a thick, fur lined jacket, Brienne strode down the long tunnels, making her way towards the pink hall were Thoros had waited.

With one final bend in the path, Brienne followed the trail of spongy green moss that lined the way towards her destination.  Petrified weirwood branches wove its way in and out of the tunnel ceiling above her.  Clumps of hard soil would occasionally fall from above, exposing more of the intricate pattern of weirwood roots that spread out like milky blood vessels engulfing the cave.

The pink hall was nothing stunning or dramatic; it got its name from the bandits who settled into the cave, dubbing it as such for the strange pink stones found imbedded in the walls of the tunnel. Under candle light, a faint sparkling could be seen within the pink stones, glimmering with a dazzling silver trace.  Most people assumed the cave was once used for mining these stones but the work had to stop once the excavation began to encroach upon the weirwood forest.

Standing with a slight hunch in front of a great fire pit, Thoros of Myr greeted Brienne with a slight smile across his graying skin.

_By the seven. He looks thinner; gaunter even._

Brienne stepped closer to the Red Wizard; she could see that his hair started to look thinner in volume, looking more coarse and silvery.  The skin around his throat started to drip down into folds of sagging flesh; his eyes looked sunken in his head while his eyelids appeared to be violet under translucent flesh. With one long arm he extended his hand out to Brienne with a frail hand that nearly shook. Once clasped between her hands she was surprised to find how cold they were.

"Brienne. You look well."

_I'm sorry I can't say the same for you._

"Thank you.  I feel well."

"Good!"  A rough laugh gasped between his plum tinted lips. "Good!  I'm pleased to see you so well. "

A self-conscious smile unspooled across her flushed lips.  "As am I."

"Will you take some wine?"

Brienne nodded her head in acceptance; off in a corner, a young boy served the two a cheap, sour red from a pale wineskin. Once served, Thoros gave the boy leave to attend his supper with the others.

With a polite sip, Brienne tried not to shiver at the flavor of such a poorly made wine assaulting her taste buds. It was curious for Brienne to note how her senses seemed to be more pronounced, more intense since the return from her eternal winter.

At a leisurely pace, Thoros led Brienne over to the fire pit; his heavy red cloak seemed almost like a burden under his emaciated frame while the folds of thick wool trailed behind him. With a graceful motion, he gestured Brienne to be seated on a bed of thick pillows next to the fire. Tucking her legs beneath herself, she looked up at the man who restored her to life with worry.

"Ser Gavin has informed me you are much improved; that's of comfort to me."  Brienne nodded her head slowly. "The footwork can be improved...but I'm not one to worry in light of your accelerated progress."

"Thank you, Ser."

Placing his wine glass on the edge of the fire pit, Thoros began to make careful measures to take a seat. Not wanting to gawk at his awkward struggles, Brienne took another polite sip of the wine as she discreetly looked down. The weirwood staff Thoros held began to tremble as he leaned his entire weight upon it. With a cringe he lowered his rear to the ledge of the stone fire pit, looking down at Brienne as if he were about to spin a yarn for her.  Settled, Thoros began to pant lightly; Brienne followed his slow movements as she felt a bloom of dread spread deep into her heart.

"The nightmares...how often do they haunt you?"

Feeling a blush rise to her cheeks Brienne looked down at her lap and felt her hair fall into her face.

"Less than before; still more than I care to admit."

"The ravages of war can twist the bravest man to fear his own sleep. A callous soldier likes to trumpet about all of the wars they fought, the tourneys they won, the maidens they bedded and wagers they've bested; but when they settle into the quiet dark of night they huddle into themselves with shame as they fear the sleep they need.  It’s as if the price of courage, pride and honor is to deny your own humanity."

"And what of my humanity?"  

Thoros looked down at Brienne with a pause; his mouth quirked to the side as he matched her steely gaze. Perturbed by his silence, Brienne continued.

" _What am I_?  Am I still even human?"  Empathy crossed Thoros' features once he heard the ache and confusion in Brienne's tone. It was clear to him that these were questions that have weighed heavily against her heart for a long time. "Am I...am I anything like Stoneheart?"

Tears gathered; her limpid eyes looked wounded and fearful in the light of the fire. Feeling the air draw from his lungs, Thoros wrapped both hands around the length of the weirwood staff as he leaned his forehead above his hands. With a sad smile he closed his eyes; suddenly exhausted he continued.

"If you're thinking that Stoneheart...you mustn't compare yourself to her: _Ever_. Who she was...Lady Stark knew great pain; she suffered grievously, in so many different ways. You once served her, you knew how strong she was; she was fierce in protecting her family, she was bound by duty and her honor was beyond reproach."

The memory of Catelyn Stark was a piteously sore one for Brienne. In her brief service to her, Brienne reluctantly admitted to herself that she thought of Lady Catelyn almost like the older sister that she never had. Embarrassed, she would reluctantly admit to herself that she would sometimes pretend that Lady Catelyn was also the mother she never had.

"Lady Stark should have been left in peace. I begged Lord Beric not to restore her back to life, I pleaded. Her body was already far too decayed, too polluted. In some strange way I had believed that her death, although tragic, was also a mercy to a woman who already suffered so much. Her return to life was an absurd cruelty when Lord Beric only thought of it as a kindness.

"Because she was so far decayed, Beric's kiss of life restored Lady Catelyn, but at the cost of his own. When the Lady was restored to us, her first breath was the sound of a terrible moan that oozed out of her blackened mouth. It was the sound of mourning and anguish that was pulled from her soul.

"There was so much anger and confusion surrounding those who witnessed her resurrection. Most in the assembly spoke of her return to life as a cruelty, an abomination; a horror that should never have been unleashed. What remained of Catelyn Stark was a perversion to what she once was.  Death, in a strange way, became a kindness to her; from her return, the black seed of an inhumane cruelty was born with her.   

"Once men of the Brotherhood understood what had happened, _what could not be undone_ , over half of the men left to form their own faction. They came to this cave here and tried to restore the Brotherhood to its former glory. “

Brienne felt her mouth fall wide as she listened to Thoros speak with such conviction.  Looking down at her with rheumy eyes, the Red Wizard sighed and smiled.

“My dearest Brinnie…”  Brienne heard her breath catch high in her chest.  “You are not a monster. You will be the one to restore the Brotherhood to its former glory.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jaime...beautiful cinnamon roll. Too good for this world; too pure. : (
> 
> I think it's time to check in on Pod now. Anyone up for a meet and greet with Lord Selwyn of Tarth?


	5. Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Evenstar receives guests; Jaime forces his own hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllooooo! 
> 
> I can't tell you how much fun I'm having right now!  
> Not to be boring but I have to thank everyone again for your amazing comments, constructive criticism, kudos and everything else that's in between.  
> So! Thank you again for your support. Thank you again for comments and thank you thank you thank you for reading!

As you may have already guessed, this chapter is named after _another_ Pablo Neruda poem by the same name.  

You can read it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Your-Hands) if you'd like; I would recommend it though, it's such a lovely poem.  :  )

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Tarth:

 

Podrick's patience was something that had to be learned gradually; it was never a pleasant or an innate experience for him.

His time with Lord Tyrion was a fortunate one; for a young squire, it was a strange and unique experience to serve the brother to a queen. Though most assumed Pod's service to Tyrion was only fashioned as a cruel joke, it was still an opportunity to serve a Lannister, which came with it the heady privilege of both pleasure and duty.

All of the comforts of the Red Keep made his service to his lord a fortunate and luxurious one; however, to serve a Lannister, someone with so much potential and influence...patience was in little need when almost anything can be done with the casual mention of a powerful last name.

His service to Lady Brienne, however, was another experience entirely.

Cold evenings sleeping on the floor of flea bitten inns, rough nights sleeping outside in the freezing cold or the pouring rain; meals from dodgy taverns, being served meat that had a suspicious taste to it; long rides in in thoughtful silence, long rides with little rest; searching, asking, sometimes pleading. Though comfort and success may have been in short supply during his service to Brienne, Podrick never lacked for her kindness or her compassion. She may have been stubborn, gruff and tedious at times, but he would be forever grateful for her intense training; never giving up on him, always guiding him, encouraging him to always strive to be better than the young man he was yesterday.

He would never forget the ultimate sacrifice Brienne made for him at the cost of her own life.

With those fresh memories still lingering in her wake, Pod never allowed for himself to feel slighted or dishonored when he was forced to endure long, tedious days seated outside of Lord Selwyn Tarth’s private chambers.  Waiting.

Determined, Pod remained seated there each day, waiting for his chance to finally meet Brienne's father. Since his arrival he had been forced to wait outside Lord Selwyn's door.  Each morning after breaking his fast he would sit there at that seat and there he would remain. Tenaciously, Pod would wait for his chance to meet with the Lord of Tarth until the house would grow dark and almost everyone would turn down for the night.  Every day, the maester of Evenfall would assure Podrick that Lord Selwyn would see him soon; this evening marked the sixth day he patiently waited to meet Brienne's father.

 

The ship Ser Addam Marbrand had secured for passage to Tarth arrived at the island with little incident, with maybe the exception of a bumpy ride through some rough seas. Two of the Lannister guards who survived the attack on the River Road were now guests at Tarth as well, acting as escorts to Podrick Payne; the escorts were Quincy and Clint.

Off in the distance, leaning his large and imposing frame against a marble banister, Clint overlooked the great courtyard of Evenfall Hall with a wistful smile. There were many places Clint had seen in his service to the Lannister; very few of those places were as ever as charming or as lovely as the island of Tarth.  The courtyard was wide with carved, romantic statues buried into small alcoves that lined the marble walls.  Thick curtains of green vegetation with small blue flowers lingered and draped over almost anything that stood still.  Great glass windows with elaborate stained glass vignettes glimmered in the sun, refracting in the light like gemstones twinkling in the candlelight of a royal courtroom.  A thick sea of evergreen trees staggered for miles in every direction; the lulling sound of ocean waves crashing nearby almost put Clint to sleep while the dying sunlight warmed his young bones.     

With little grace, Clint's friend, Quincy, tossed his thin body against the marble banister next to Clint, interrupting his peace and quiet with a loud and ungainly belch. A wide and easy smile crossed Quincy's thin lips; Clint saw the low, lazy swirl of white wine twirl at the bottom of his goblet. Between the lowered eyelids and the flushed pink cheeks, Clint's eyes correctly assumed his friend was drunk.

"Twat."

Quincy raised his wineglass towards his friend as the last dregs of drink was tossed down his gullet.  Under the flickering torch lights that lined the great balcony, Quincy's bald head shone bright like a freshly minted coin.

"Aye. _You are a twat_! Ello' Twat, my name's Quincy!" With a self-congratulatory smile, Quincy peeled into a wide laugh as Clint rolled his brown eyes in annoyance.

"Shut it, numb nuts." Clint threw his friend a dirty look. Feigning a serious attitude, Quincy tried to stand up straight but felt his stomach slam into the marble banister; a slight 'oof' tumbled from his smiling lips. "I don’t want the lad to catch us." Clint nodded his head in the general direction of Pod.  The sweeping ocean air played with the stubborn brown curls that crowned Clint's head.

Clint was of course referring to Podrick Payne, the Maid of Tarth's former squire. At a distance in the courtyard, Clint could see Pod waiting dutifully inside of a well-lit, glass lined hall outside the Lord of Tarth's private solar.

Rolling his blue eyes, Quincy’ bald head wrinkled incredulously as he complained. "We've been here for daayyys! So what if we have a lill' fun. Just because _his_ friend is _dead_ , doesn't mean _we_ have to be."

Clint glanced back over at Quincy with a slight look of disgust. With one thick hand, Clint swiped the empty wine glass from his friend and set it aside. Annoyed, Quincy awkwardly smoothed his hands over the cool marble banister with an odd fascination.  He knew Clint was displeased, he thought of a way to try to regain his friends favor.

"Did you know...thaaaat Tarth is known for its creamy white marble?  Hmmm?  It's one of the island's most profitable exports. The Eyrie is made up entirely of this pretty stuff. It's also the same marble used for the Sept of Baelor too."

Clint said nothing; it wasn't fair, Quincy knew he was a sucker for historical facts. "As welllll, Tarth was once its own kingdom, going all the way back before the Dawn Age! The king was once called the Evenstar...for being soooo...uhhh..."  Quincy struggled to remember through an intoxicated memory.  Clint interjected.

"For being so even-ish?” Quincy shrugged at Clint's suggestion.  Feeling himself be pulled in reluctantly, Clint followed up with his friends drunken history lesson with more interest. “OK. I'll bite: just what the fuck _is_ an evenstar?"

Quincy rubbed his stubble lined jaw with a smug look of satisfaction. “See that star?” In spite of the fact that it was an hour before sunset, one bright star lingered in the sky above like a glittering jewel rest against an azure blue twilight.

“ _That_ , is the evening star! Or the _evenstar._   It's probably called as such because people can be such lazy fucks.

"Some people think that the evening star was once the queen of love and beauty. People on Tarth like to say that because she shines so bright she’s the first to arrive and she is the last to leave."

Clint perked up when he heard the last part of what Quincy had said. "Aren't those the house words of Tarth?"

Smiling through his drunken glaze, Quincy smirked at his friend with a crooked grin.

"Close! Tarth's actual house words are: ' _The first to shine; the last to fade_.'"

In spite of his annoyance with his inebriated friend, Clint looked back up at the early evening sky with a romantic smile curled on his lips. “That's pretty.” Clint gazed at the luminescent star with a new sense of majesty.

“Beautiful, really.”

 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Soft, white bed sheets were twisted around his naked waist. On most winter nights, Jaime would sleep in a long night shift when the sharp winds of a looming snowfall yawned before Kings Landing. For some reason, he chose to sleep bare on this night.

A gentle hand started to ghost across his face. The faintest trace of fingers danced over his lips; a slow line of irregular fingernails began to trail down the length of his jaw in a slow, torturous speed.

To his delight, long, narrow fingers began to blaze a smoldering path through his golden hair. Her nails were always filthy, broken and ragged; it didn't matter to him, just as long as she didn't stop running her fingers over his scalp like that. He felt a warm hum roll in his chest as a shy smile climbed across his sleepy face. His eyes stayed closed; he was too content now, too satisfied in this moment.

"I _knew_ you were awake."

Her voice rumbled low in her throat; it soon followed with a near silent laugh; the trail of a sweet smile could be heard in her low voice. It felt like a song to him.

"That may be..." He sighed as he felt his scalp start to tingle. "...but there is nothing in this world that is making me get out of this bed _now_."

Her rough nails started to graze and slide over the back of his neck. Humming again, he could feel his heart beat fast as a wanting started to pull the remainder of his body from the embrace of warm sleep.

With a gentle laugh, she continued. "You were playing possum." He could hear her smile grow wider. With a teasing voice, she continued. "I thought you are supposed to be a man of honor."

"I thought you knew, Wench." Jaime's breath hitched in his chest as the slow burn of arousal began to melt his fears.

"Knew what?"

He opened his eyes.

She was lying on her stomach, one hand dragging, teasing her nails up and down the back of his neck, soft as a whisper. She was naked, like he; her other arm propped her head up. For one tantalizing moment, Jaime could see one breast exposed in profile as a beautiful smile lit up her eyes.

"That all's fair in love and war."

She glanced at his face with a bashful smile. Gradually, she started to trace her fingers down his bobbing throat and then over his chest; back and forth, in a languid, lovely pace.

"So we are at war then? Where are your chains? I don't recall releasing you from them, Ser."

Smiling at her flirtatious tone, Jaime grabbed her hand in his own with a firm, yet gentle grip. With her hand now still, he placed it on his chest, over his heart with sheepish eyes and a shy quirk of his lips. With wide blue eyes her words began to fail her. He watched a blush rise in her cheeks as her eyelids suddenly turned heavy.

Keeping her hand over his heart, she slid her body closer to him. Her skin was warm like spring sunlight, her short hair still had tangles and some mats at the base of her neck. Draping half her torso over his chest, he felt a new stirring as one of her warm breasts rested enticingly upon his body. His breathing turned quick, his heart began to patter; her head was tucked in under his chin as he kept her hand pinned firmly over his chest.

With only his shortened arm, he buried his wrist into her pale blonde hair. He sighed.

"I miss you."

He was afraid she didn't hear him over his broken whisper. Lifting her head up from the crook of his neck, she kissed him. His eyes clenched shut, his lips turned soft under her tender mouth. He never imagined her to be such a passionate kisser; she always knew how to surprise him.

As their kiss deepened he felt his body respond to hers entirely. Her thigh slid between his legs as she pulled her body further up onto his own. A low moan of his filled the air; she swallowed every groan that followed in its wake; it flowed from up his chest and she let it roll back down into her own body.

Pulling their mouths apart with panted breaths, Brienne looked down at Jaime with bittersweet eyes.

"I've never left you. I'm here."Her kisses continued as he moaned anew. "I'll _always_ be here."

He gasped into her mouth before she kissed him again. She kept one hand over his heart as the other began to weave its way into his beard, leisurely caressing his strong jaw. Her languid fingers glided up the back of his neck, teasing the lobe of his ear faintly. _That's not fair_ , he thought, _she knows my ears are my undoing._ Eventually her rough fingernails began to glide their way back into his soft hair. She moaned into their kiss as his hand started to trail down her spine, past her shoulder blades, past her ribs; lower, lower until his fingers found his way to the dimples at the small of her back.

Her fingers stilled in his hair; pulling away from his mouth, she looked down upon him with ravenousness in her eyes. She studied him with her wild hair, a slack mouth and flushed lips; a bloom of arousal had begun to spread across her panting chest. Feeling bold, she timidly wrapped one leg around his waist as the evidence of his arousal began to brush up and slide against her rear. She seated herself down upon him like a queen; though she was nervous, she rested only the bulbs of her fingertips upon his chest with a shuddering breath.

His dark green eyes studied her; his hand ghosted up her thigh, fluttered over her hipbone and lingered between her small, yet inviting breasts. His wrist brushed up against a hard nipple just as his hand reached up to stroke her face with a tenderness he never knew he held. She sighed as her eyes closed; he rolled his hips, enticing her. With a small grunt at the back of her throat she closed her eyes tighter against this new feeling and shivered. Astounded to see her in such a way, so vulnerable, he ran his fingers through her hair and carefully brought her face back down towards his.

They kissed again.  For every word that failed them, they found it together within each other’s kiss; they felt it between every touch that graced each other's bodies.

Together, they were drowning; together, they were breathing in a new life.

 

 

 

\-----------------------------------

Kings Landing:

 

 

He woke with a start.

 

The dreams were becoming more frequent now. More vivid; _much_ more intense. As his panted breaths began to taper off he felt shame gather once he saw how responsive his body still was.   _Tomorrow she'll be gone now for three weeks_.

He felt it was indecent to think of her in such a base way, but he had no control over his dreams; no more control than he had over the feelings he still felt towards her.

Jaime looked down at his chest; he was still wearing his white cotton sleeping tunic. With his only hand, he felt the bed sheets at his side with a meek expression writ on his face; he felt ridiculous.

It seemed impossible, but he thought he could somehow feel her warmth still linger next to him on the bed. _I must be going mad. Soon I'll be screaming and raving in the Red Keep like a lunatic._

With an exhausted sigh he ran his fingers through his hair as he glared up at the ceiling with exasperation.

_"I never left you. I'm here. I'll always be here."_

Jaime slowly dragged his body out of bed.

 

 

\----------------------------------

 Later that day:

 

 

"Regent? Lord Commander...I hadn't even thought that King Tommen--"

Mace Tyrell sat at the small council table with a stunned look plastered to his face.  Because he was made the Hand of the King before Kevan Lannister's death, most naturally assumed Mace would also become the next regent to the boy king.

Jaime Lannister studied Lord Tyrell's wide lips and fumbling hands.  When Mace was nervous, he'd awkwardly began to fidget with his hands like a septon caught tugging at himself in his sleeping quarters.  Jaime started to feel confident again.

"King Tommen is eight. By rights he is not of age to assume full power of the throne until he is six and ten. It will be his royal prerogative for him to replace me if he so chooses; and if he commands to dismiss me I will serve and obey."

What little remained of the small council was now as silent as a tomb.  Lord Randyll Tarly, watched Jaime and Mace with a shrewd look as Ser Harys Swyft squirmed in his seat.  Lord Tarly cleared his throat nosily and challenged the Lord Commander.

"We've heard you were asked to be Hand to the King when Tywin Lannister passed away. You refused. Why now, why assume regency?"

A hundred thoughts crossed Jaime's mind: the threat of losing his last son was a prevalent one; the delicate balance and the perilous state the Crown now teetered upon; the coming winter and the fear that an inevitable famine could incite a revolt against the monarchy; the absolute knot of financial devastation that would soon befall Westeros if things were not smoothed over with the Iron Bank; the unfathomable devastation his sister had left in her ruined path from all of her blind, blundering choices; the trial by combat soon to follow, the Faith Militant; all thoughts and fears he entertained deserved equal amounts of consideration.

Jaime's reply began to falter under the gaze of the small council. His truth was still a hard one to swallow but in the end, he only wanted to take responsibility for his actions. The truth was he was a father, and he only wanted to protect his last son in all of the ways a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could never do. Closing his eyes against the waiting faces that studied him, Jaime took a deep breath and spoke from the heart.

"My lord, the simple truth is that aside from Cersei, I am the last member of King Tommen's family to serve His Grace’s best interests." The room fell silent, Jaime continued. "King Tommen's father is dead. King Joffrey is dead. Cersei may very well die too, should the trial by combat fail her. Myrcella is not in any position to assume rule over the seven kingdoms. Queen Margery awaits her trial in Highgarden.  My brother is a kinslayer and a kingslayer and is also missing. My father is with us no more and the last of the commanding rulers, Uncle Kevan, is dead too.”

Jaime pressed his hands, one of gold and one flesh, onto the small council table and sighed. Dropping his head to his chest he slowly shook his head and spoke with an exhaustive breath.

"Nothing displeases me more than to bide my time here in the Red Keep. King Robert was right; this city is nothing more than a scrambling rats nest. I am not here to assume rule as a King, I am here as a Lord Commander and as an uncle. For the realm, for my nephew, I am willing to serve him in whatever way and do whatever it takes to help keep the peace so that the seven kingdoms can finally heal.

“I am tired of war. I am tired of losing family; I am tired of surviving losses. My lords, I do not seek the regency for me; I only seek to preserve Tommen's throne until he is of age."

The master of coin, Ser Harys Swyft interjected slowly.  “You are his uncle; it's your right to assume the role.”

“I may have that right, but His Grace deserves something more than his mother ever gave him; something that King Joffrey was denied as well.” All eyes fell on him as he finished his thought. “I am going to give King Tommen his right to choose. Between Mace Tyrell and me; we are going to respect His Grace’s choice, in whichever way he decides because it will be what _he wants_.”

 The Lord of Highgarden sat slumped in his chair with a look of defeat.  Jaime made sure to conceal his growing optimism.

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Tarth:

 

 

Pod was tenacious, but he was tired of waiting.

Copper light from the setting sun filled the long, glass hallway that lead to the Evenstar's solar. Stained glass panels were placed between every other window frame, lighting up the pale, marble stone pavers within and making the bright hall glitter like a high septon's crown. Pod let out a considerable yawn behind his hand as he shifted again in the overstuffed leather chair.

Pod was even more exhausted of sitting in this blasted room. From his seat next to the Evenstar's door, Pod touched the red scabbard that withheld Oathkeeper; he thought of the bandit he killed and the other he maimed during the siege on the River Road. Memories of watching a sled that carried off Brienne's remains filled him with self-loathing. He must have dozed off because he was startled to feel a large hand shake his shoulder.

Standing above him loomed a tall but not an imposing man; his nose was narrow, his eyes were bright blue and he still had a modest gathering of blond and silver hair on top of his head. Dressed in a quilted blue doublet with black breeches and black doeskin boots, Podrick had no doubt that this was the fabled Lord Selwyn of Tarth.

"Have you eaten yet son?"

Still startled by his abrupt awakening, Pod rubbed his sleep filled eyes with a loose fist. He was surprised to see the glass lined great hall was no longer bright and cheery; instead, in the evening light, the hall looked like a hollow smile painted onto a sad yet pretty face.

"N-n-no my lord."

A warm smile crossed the Lord's lips; the boy's stutter faintly reminded him of his long, anxious days with his daughter as she agonized and rehearsed the courtesies she would say when she was to meet her betrothed. With a faint gesture, the Lord of Tarth held open the weirwood door to his solar wide open and allowed Pod entry.

Selwyn's private chambers were both handsome and inviting. The solar was a great round room that was one of many stories to this wide tower. The famous white marble of Tarth made for all of the stones used for the walls and the floor. There were great floor to ceiling bookcases lining the solar, they were made of bone white weirwood with chipped onyx inlays. A great marble fireplace, carved with the crescent moons and the sunbursts of Tarth contained a great fire to warm up the large room. In the center there was a great black round table covered with letters of condolences, half read books and a decanter of white wine.  An elegant silver tray rested off to the side of the table, holding the contents of the Lord of Tarth's dinner; the lord motioned with a casual hand towards the meal for Pod to enjoy in his stead.

"Please. Eat."

"Won’t you be eating my lord?"

Selwyn shook his head in distraction. "I find my stomach no longer has the appetite it once had." With a hard growl in his stomach, Pod began to eat the lord's meal with silent gratitude. "I believe when I was your age I must have eaten my way through half a herd of cattle. But now, in my age, there is little food needed, little sleep required and instead...you feast on long, empty hours to fill a mind with both boredom and doubt."

Seated across from the feasting squire, Selwyn quietly pulled out a small piece of parchment from his pocket; the paper was small enough to be sent by raven. Folding and unfolding the paper a dozen times, Selwyn watched Pod eat his meal with a small frown on his face.  Tucking the worn parchment back into his pocket, Lord Selwyn fumbled for words to ease his troubled consciousness.

"I want to apologize to you for my inhospitable conduct. These last few weeks have been...more of a challenge than I had ever imagined them to be."  Looking up from his dinner of stewed lamb and roasted potatoes, Pod listened carefully.

"When my last surviving child told me she was going off to fight for her king, I had to accept the idea that it was _possible_ it may be the last time I'd ever see her again. I had prepared myself for this moment. At least I thought I had; now I that understand how final her death is, how..."  Selwyn's words faltered quietly.  "I won't even have the decency to bury her in the family crypts..." Selwyn's eyes seemed to glaze over with some haunted memory. Pod felt his face burn with shame, somehow assuming the fault for not delivering Brienne's bones squarely upon his shoulders.

The Lord's silence lingered still.  Pod felt like the inviting food had turned to sand in his mouth.  Bowing his head solemnly over his feast, Pod considered his words but stopped once he heard the Lord of Tarth clear his throat awkwardly.  The Evenstar was exhausted, possibly going on days without sleep. He wasn't as tall as Brienne; she did have his build though.  To Pod's surprise, the Lord spoke more to Pod in less than one hour than Brienne ever spoke to him for days at a time.  His clothes looked fine, but they were loose and near ill fitting; it had been apparent his clothing were once tailored for a man who once possessed a more rotund form. But to the squire's surprise, he did speak like Brienne; his words lingered and followed and dripped with an almost lyrical tempo. It was rare for Brienne to speak to Pod for long stretches of time, but when she did, it almost had a delicious range of both tone and inflection; just like her father.

Feeling Selwyn's gaze was soon going to melt with tears, Pod quietly stood to take his place in front of the Lord of Tarth. In his hands he carried Oathkeeper, a divine blade worthy of fables and heroes and legends. With slow movements, the young squire presented the blade to the grieving father with both hands and a blank face.

"I can't restore your daughter's remains to you Ser. I keep thinking about that day on the River Road and I still feel sick with regret about it. I vowed to Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, that I'd return the lady's bones and blade to you, Ser. I failed you in one; I can't fail you with the other."

Holding up the blade higher to Lord Selwyn, Pod looked down at his feet as he heard the Evenstar's breathing grow still. Gingerly plucking the blade from the squires hands Pod continued with a slight tremble in his voice.

"On behalf of King Tommen, the first of his name and on behalf of Lord Commander Jaime Lannister, I humbly present to you your daughter's sword. The Crown is indebted to you for your daughter's loyal service to the realm."

In his hands, Lord Selwyn of Tarth held the unparalleled beauty of a red Valyrian blade in total wonder. Roaring lion heads fashioned in Lannister gold glistened in the light of the fireplace; rubies framed with small pearls twinkled with a lingering majesty.

With silvery eyebrows knitted together, Selwyn spoke in a near whisper as his voice broke haltingly. "Who gifted this blade to her?"

Feeling instantly nervous, Podrick forced his mouth to form the answer to the lord's question.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser. The blade was given to her to fulfill an oath both he and the Lady Brienne once vowed to uphold."

Mentions of a vow his daughter made with the Kingslayer peaked Selwyn's interests. Determined to hear the story of such vows, the Lord of Tarth eased into his line of questioning with his first, simple request.

"Does the blade have name?"

"Oathkeeper, Ser."

Lord Selwyn looked at the young boy with a hundred questions written across his worn and mournful face. As the gale of winter winds howled around Selwyn's private tower, he held the blade closer to his chest as his eyes drifted back at the young squire from his chair.

_The Oathbreaker gifted my daughter with an Oathkeeper._

With a slow inhale, the Lord of Tarth looked back at the young man with a hard look.

"I need you to tell me everything about this vow, Podrick. I need to know why my daughter lost her life to a vow she made with the _Kingslayer_ and I need to know everything that you know."

Pod looked at Brienne's father with a strange blend of dread and excitement. Eventually, the men found themselves seated by the fireplace and a long story soon began; it was a story that had unfolded before the Lord of Tarth in a way he could never have dreamed of. It was a story of vows, a fib about sapphires, the tragedy of a severed hand, the rescue from a deathly bear pit and the steadfast determination of a stubborn maid from Tarth.

Both Lord Selwyn and Podrick Payne spoke softly all throughout night with glasses of untouched wine still clutched in their hands. Pod spoke long and carefully about what he knew what he heard; once in a while, both men even found themselves laughing unexpectedly over fond memories about Brienne. Both men had spoken long into the night; spoken until a roaring fire had guttered out and the glass hall outside of the Evenstar's solar was once again sparkling with both color and light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I said I didn't want to be a tease...and now I am a total hypocrite. I'll own up to that. : P
> 
> I feel bad...but! But, I was missing some of that sweet sweet Brienne and Jaime action that we all love so well!  
> Oh! PS, this chapter marks my first published smut scene! Hooray!  
> Does Hallmark make a greeting card for that milestone?


	6. Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime begins to know his son; there is a visitor at the Grey Tower; Brienne says farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, this is where things are starting to picking up...took me a bit longer to write this. I had to re-read  
> certain passages in Feast just to make sure my choices would make sense in this chapter.
> 
> My utmost gratitude to all of the amazing people who are taking a chance on me and supporting my first work.  
> I am amazed by the support, the questions, the comments and the love. Your support is humbling to me. : )
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

The title from this chapter is the title from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  If you'd like, you can read it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Tie-Your-Heart-At-Night-To-Mine,-Love,).  

 

 -----------------------------------------------

The Small Council:

 

For someone whose feet couldn't touch the floor, the little king sat at the head of the small council table with as much dignity as a Lannister could possess.  

His father wanted to smirk as he watched Tommen's cherubic face, practiced and refined in a mask of austerity; it was humorous to see when contrasted against his little legs dangling and swinging tediously beneath the table.  Though Cersei was not there, Jaime knew she would’ve scolded the young king like a dreaded septa rather than a regent; a twist of his ear, a shivering glance, a harsh word would have all have been likely outcomes if her poisonous reach was felt.

Once the High Sparrow heard the news of Kevan Lannister's death, he commanded to have the former queen regent locked away in a secluded tower within the Red Keep.  Day and night she was guarded by overzealous septons and escorted everywhere by the bitter, silent sisters. The High Sparrow held a suspicion that Cersei may have had a part in Kevan's murder to restore herself as queen regent.

The Sparrow couldn't help but arrive at such a conclusion; if she had commanded for a high septon to be murdered for her own benefit, then why not a new regent as well? Because she was still waiting for her trial by combat she was sentenced to remain confined in a cell that befitted her station.  

With his mossy green eyes fixed on Tommen's sweet face, Jaime watched his son listen to Mace Tyrell’s sound council with a shadow of regret piercing him.   _What if I had only tried harder? What if I could have somehow found a way to love them more?  Could Joffery have turned out any better?_ It was one of the fiercest regrets Jaime felt; he never had the chance to hold any of his children when they were born. Cersei was too fearful, too paranoid; every time he had considered a kindness to one of his children, Cersei would ultimately squash the sentiment like a insect, rebuking him for his careless affection.

_"And what do you think they will see if the child favors you? You think it's not bad enough they look exactly like us, now you want to invite more attention to it as well?"_

Somewhere in the midst of longing and regret, Jaime had begun to unknowingly wonder what a child with Brienne would have looked like.     _Blond with her eyes and smile, I’d think. The child would be stubborn like an aurochs...but tenderhearted, like Tommen._

With a distant, foggy look, Jaime began to rapidly blink his eyes with a sharp inhale once he understood what it was he was truly considering. With a small flash of shame, the Lord Commander shook his head lightly to himself with a silent rebuke for such nonsense.  In the haze of his daydreams, Jaime eventually heard Mace Tyrell's voice booming in the small council chamber. "And you are in _disagreement,_ Lord Commander?

Jaime became startled with a vacant, unknowing look splashed across his face.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

Tommen had a cute smile that he fought hard to contain. Knowing his uncle was indeed, not paying attention, the little king helped Jaime save face.  "Uncle, we were of course discussing different ways to ration our granaries for the coming winter."  Relieved by Tommen's social graces, Jaime hardly fumbled for a reply to Mace Tyrell's veiled challenge.

"Of course!  The granaries. No my lord, I am not in disagreement. I was merely reflecting; I am... _very concerned_ for the wellbeing of the small folk, your Grace; it's terrible to imagine so many suffering without the compassion of a good king to aide them."

With a discreet smile, Tommen nodded his golden head and urged Lord Tyrell to continue with his contingency plans to prevent a winter famine. While the Lord of Highgarden tried to impress his king with his tedious presentation, Jaime threw a sly, knowing wink at his son in gratitude.

To his joy, Tommen threw Jaime's sly little wink back.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

The Grey Tower:

 

The spiral stairs of the Grey Tower were treacherous; it was a sad, solitary place that always remained drafty, even in the heart of summer. The tower was an especially bleak place now that frost laced winds screamed around the highest towers of the Red Keep; the glacial winds promised a brutal snowstorm would be approaching soon.  Ice encrusted arrowslits offered up scant lighting for the former maester as he struggled to find his feet while climbing up the high tower.  Two sets of militant feet dutifully followed him in his darkened trail.

Former Queen Regent Cersei Baratheon was held in confinement at the highest cell inside the Grey Tower following the murder of her uncle, Kevan Lannister. Following the shame she had endured from her walk of atonement, Cersei learned how to play the role of the shorn lion as well as any mummer. Her hair was still short, her bruised begun to faded to a sickly green and the lacerations on her feet were slowly beginning to heal; as ridiculous as the newest murder charge was, she worked very hard to keep up her mummer's farce. Every time she forced herself to speak false courtesies such as ‘please’ or ‘thank you,’ all she had to do was keep her face like a painted mask and silently assure herself of who she really was.

_And yet, a Lion still has claws..._

But it didn’t matter how meekly she cowered, nor how sweet her prayers may have been, nor did it matter how piously she mourned for her 'dear' uncle, none of the silent sisters would listen to her pleas.  Commanding words that were once feared by all those who surrounded her now died on her thinning lips in the strangled silence of those who endured her. Every plea she made to proclaim innocence, every demand and every denial of her crimes she uttered, the only reply she was given was the distant, hollow echo of her words that lingered within the walls of the dismal tower.

By her best estimation, Cersei had now been trapped in the tower cell for almost a month.  In that time she had not been able to receive a visitor to her cell, not even a note from her 'dear, sweet boy.'  

Isolation had been a cruel and strange punishment for the former queen; there were too many long hours in a day to ponder, dread and wonder. Though wild speculation became her constant companion, in these silent days the cold companion of paranoia always lingers close by.

With a gentle knock, Cersei knew immediately it wasn't one of the silent sisters who would come to visit her; they would only visit the former queen thrice a day; once to refresh her chamber pot and twice for her morning and evening meals.

Everyday of her imprisonment the queen made delicate requests for a skin of wine to be served to her with her meals; she made the pretty claim how the wine would be appreciated in such a drafty room. Every day her meals had been served and every day she had been denied, finding only a lonely glass of water to accompany her food.  Long nights she shivered by the fireplace, sweating, anxious, enduring restless and uneasy sleep; her only other thoughts other than Jaime and her son included her longing for a single flagon of Arbor red.

Two nights ago, in a fit of rage for being denied her smallest request, Cersei threw her filled chamber pot, landing it on the back of one of the silent sisters.  The smell of her loose stools and pungent urine filled the tower cell; Cersei smiled at the repulsed sister with a sharp mirth.  As punishment, the silent sisters refused to clean up the mess she had made, only leaving the former queen a pile of rags to sop up her own discarded filth with. In a rage, Cersei blindly paced back and forth in her cell room, dragging her still healing feet through her own filth, all the while screaming and raving, reminding all that would listen that she was still the queen.

"Your Grace."

Through a small window latched at the center of the thick cell door, Cersei found Qyburn greeted her with a grim face that was lined with a quiet defeat.

"Have you heard any word of the king?  My son, how is he?"  

With a small wince, Qyburn assured her grace that all was well in matters that concerned King Tommen.  At least, as far as his whispering birds could discern. The former maester tried not to inhale too deeply from the air coming from the queen's cell; the foul tang of night soil still lingered.

"I don't understand, what does that even mean?"

Qyburn's grandfatherly face made a slow, strange smile that could curdle fresh milk. With a deep sigh, he persevered with his ill tidings.

"There are whispers that I'll be relieved of my service to the Red Keep this evening; I am no longer a member of the small council, nor am I no longer in service to the dungeons, your Grace. In fact, your Grace, I am kept under close supervision by Lannister guards daily."  

Perplexed by such news, Cersei's eyes darted over Qyburn's face anxiously, desperately wondering who would have the authority to command such orders.

_Kevan's wife, Dorna...or Lancel. Tyrion?  No.  Jaime...but he's still missing. He would have seen me if he had he returned...I would feel it. I would know if he had returned..._

"By whose orders?"

Qyburn paused for a moment as he searched Cersei's face. Her skin looked feverish, clammy; in the faint light he could see a small gathering of sweat beaded on her forehead.

"Your brother: Ser Jaime Lannister. He has returned to King's Landing your Grace."  Cersei felt her jaw fall open like a trap door. "He has been here in the capitol now for nearly a week."  Oppressive silence lingered between her and the former maester; the air suddenly felt too thin for Cersei; she felt her knees had a curious tremble in them. The former queen felt her eyes slowly peel back wide as a drop in her stomach was felt.

Flustering with a looming dread, Cersei's eyes fluttered shut just as her lips started to turn numb. "No.  No that can't be. There must be some mistake. He would have come for me, he would have..."  The words were on her tongue but none could be spoken without the threat of tears. She continued in a faint whisper that began to tremble with denial. " _He would have freed me_.  He would tear down this tower, brick by brick to come free me."  

A curious smile rolled across Qyburn's mouth as the queen clenched her eyes shut with a numbing shock. Allowing another moment to linger, the queen felt her knees grow faint as Qyburn searched for the delicate words for his next piece of news.

"There is more, your Grace."  Cersei's eyes blinked open with tears on her eyelashes. "It appears that Ser Jaime means to assume the role as regent. He has granted King Tommen one week to decide either between himself or Mace Tyrell as regent; most everyone assumes that the regency will be given to Ser Jaime only because Tommen has been so impressed by his right to choose his own from the beginning."

Cersei felt her knees grow weak just as a wave of lightheadedness began to assault her.  Leaning her entire weight against the door to her cell she dropped her head close to her chin as a quiet sob filled her chest. Through the small window, Qyburn could only see the faint crown of golden fuzz at the top of the queen's head.  Feeling pity, Qyburn reached his bony fingers through the bars of the narrow window to offer any comfort to his queen; he timidly stroked his fingers at the top of the queen's shivering head like he would to a wounded alley cat.  Her skin felt hot to the touch.  

Qyburn's voice dropped low to a graveyard whisper as his lips reached close to the narrow window.  "Ser Robert Strong still remains in service to the Kingsguard, however."

Feeling a gradual wash of relief, Cersei slowly lifted her head back up to reveal her blotchy, weeping face. The former maester's fingers began to make a slow, fatherly caress along the queen's wet cheek.  Nodding her head with a quiet understanding Cersei lowered her eyes in shame once she saw the blatant pity found in Qyburn's eyes.

With a watery sniffle the queen tried to regain some of her shattered dignity back.  Lifting her head back up high with flushed cheeks she wiped her face clean from her tears and thanked Qyburn in a hard, level voice.

To her dismay Cersei still found the pity had lingered in his cold, unearthly gaze. Clenching her jaw with mild frustration she nodded her head with a quiet acceptance of his news while trying to look bored by his lingering presence.

"How long have you been ill, your Grace?"

Flashing her eyes back at Qyburn with some contempt she began to wrinkle her forehead in confusion before assuming that his previous looks were not that of pity, but rather of concerns for her health and wellbeing.

"I woke up with a headache this morning. There have been some aches..."

Nodding his head with understanding, Qyburn looked behind him to see two Lannister guards linger on the stair case with bored vigilance.

"I will petition to examine you for your illness.  Given my prior knowledge of your medical history I could claim it would be to your benefit for me to see you; you must be healthy in order for your trial by combat to commence."

Feeling a surge of hope swell in her, Cersei felt the wet knot of tearful optimism cling inside her throat. "Do it. _I am ill;_ state your claim to the septon and have me treated immediately. Tell them there is no one else I will trust with my physical examination."

With a new sense of purpose writ on Qyburn's face he felt his chest swell with pride as he dutifully nodded his head toward his queen. Turning his back he slowly made his way down the narrow stairs with Lannister guards in tow. Following his departure through the iron bars in the window of the small door, Cersei sighed as the sound of their heavy footfalls begun to fade.

Quickly glancing around her cell room with a teary smile, Cersei began to feel hope cling itself to her heart with its small talons. With sharp a hiss of pain she began to make her way back over to her meager fire with a considerable limp. Seating herself at a plush velvet stool she lifted her dainty foot out from her beneath her woolen dress to finally examine it.

By the light of a dying flame, Cersei examined her foot to see the source of her concealed agony. All morning she kept her foot hidden from herself beneath her long charcoal grey skirts; she would not allow herself to believe that there was anything truly wrong with her.  Yesterday evening her large toe had felt tender to the touch and slightly numb; an unsettling shade of pink was present then and the skin felt achy, but it was nothing compared to the agony she endured this morning.

With a thin gasp she had discovered her big toe had become swollen; the skin at the base of the toe was looking pale, loose and folded like soft cheese. The entire length of her toe looked shiny with patches of yellowing and pink splotches all over. To her own horror, morbid curiosity compelled Cersei to press her finger at the knuckle of her toe. With an agonizing pain she watched in astonishment as a thick patch of the yellowing skin start to slide off, peeling back a clean strip of brutal pink flesh as a putrid smell filled her nostrils.

From the uppermost cell, the barren walls of the Grey Tower were filled to the brim with the haunted echo of a blood chilling scream.

No one was there to hear her weeping.

 

 

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

 

 

It was his hand that made her shudder.

Long, strong fingers, blistered and hardened from years of sword fighting, tourneys and battles transformed into something soft, like a gentle promise, on her skin. He touched her face with such a breathtaking delicacy as she looked down upon him; his eyes were wide and dark, it was almost as if he was looking up at her as if she were someone who was beautiful.

His burnished gold hair slid like fine, silk threads through her fingers; she wanted to bury her nose in it and breathe in his scent. Her nose nuzzled his earlobe and he moaned again just as she playfully nipped the tender flesh there; she wanted the smell of his skin to be her only air as she gasped into his neck without shame.  

How his strong legs would slide between hers; in her was born the intense desire to twine her legs and arms within his, somehow hoping they would never part again.  The rasp of the hair on his legs brushing up against the soft flesh of her inner thigh felt like a beautiful torture to her.

 

_"I miss you."_

 

 

 

\---------------------------------------

 

 

To her dismay, she had awoken.

The fire still burned bright for her; fans of flames, brilliant and glowing, became her only companion in her room. What she really wanted there was only one other person; someone to share her room, her bed and her body with.  Desperate, she buried her head deep into her feather pillow as she screwed her eyes shut; Brienne tried to chase down the faintest shadows of a dream that was now beginning to fade away.

It had all been so frustrating for her; as frequent as these dreams had now become she could only remember just faint parts of them, never the whole dream itself. It was always Jaime, with her in bed; somehow in her dream she felt the boldness to touch him, to lovingly stroke his hair and his skin. Every moan that came from his lips would inspire her to create more from him just so she would be able to hear his wordless praise of her.  In her dreams she had allowed herself permission to be brave as she would caress and touch, brush and tease; every new sound she pulled from him fed her bottomless desire to hear only more.

Turning under the heavy fur blankets, Brienne of Tarth gave up on her return to sleep as intense thoughts of Jaime filled her mind.  She wanted him, for a long time she knew, but she never had the courage to entertain such thoughts for long.  Before she died she could only think of him as a man whose heart would always belong to another. She had believed that the likes of her would never be enough for someone as handsome or as famed as the likes of him. Or at least, that was what she once believed...until she knew his heart.

To hear the prayers of strangers and friends was one miracle; it was touching to know her life had mattered; her life had made an impact on others.  No matter how many people disliked her, no matter how many men sneared at her and called her cruel names, no matter how many women were disgusted by her presence or felt threatened by her strength, it was an incredible to know that in the end, her life was of a great value.

It was also another thing to comprehend the heartbreak of the man she loved.  To know the full extent of his grief, to feel his tragedy, to know how much he mourned her...and here she believed he thought of her as nothing more than a friend.  What he felt for her, what he did for her.  The kiss he gave her before she was taken away...it felt like something akin to....

Sitting up in her bed, Brienne shook the thoughts from her mind as she began to distance herself from anymore thoughts of sleep.  Peeling back the heavy fur blanket she came upon the white Kingsguard cloak that she would place over herself like a bed sheet every night like.  With a handful of the soft white cloak, Brienne marveled over Jaime’s heartbreaking generosity.    

_“This should have been your honor.  You were the only true knight. This world never deserved you, Wench.”_

Brienne worried about him, just as she always did; whenever she would find herself stroking his white cloak with a loving hand, she remembered how devastated he had felt the last time he saw her; stubborn tears gathered in his eyes.  With all of her heart she wanted Jaime to find peace, to find a sense of purpose and to carry on.  In her heart she knew he was stronger than he ever gave himself credit for, but there were times...shortly following her death...she became especially worried.

As she stood up from her bed, Brienne felt a faint slickness between her thighs; Brienne thought nothing of it in light of the dream she just had.  At the moment she was lacing up her grey quilted doublet, Brienne began to hear a great shuffling of feet as the sound carried from the main chamber of the cave to her alcove.  Something was amiss.       

With a light jog, Brienne followed the tunnel to the main chamber to find out what had transpired.  Everyone within this new brotherhood lingered near the pool that led to the great crashing waterfall.  High up in the cave there were shafts of early morning sunlight.  High up in the petrified weirwood trees that clung to the rocky ledges of the cliffs, Brienne could see a whole host of ravens pecking and quorking, looking down upon the assembly with some curious wonder.  Brienne had never seen so many gathered there before.  

Every person there assembled looked in some way startled or nervous.  Locating Beth Bower in the cave, Brienne approached the young woman with some trepidation.  

“What has happened here?”

Beth’s shoulders were hunched up high to her neck in discomfort as a thick wool shawl was draped across her back.  Looking down she toed a patch of ice with her boots before looking up at Brienne with worry in her grey eyes.  “Guests were received an hour ago.  Nothing strange had happened, but then there came a great commotion from the pink hall a while ago.  Now I’m hearing that Thoros may be dying.”

There was a shock for Brienne, but if she was honest she wasn’t terribly surprised.  Thoros had been looking especially frail these last several days. Still, Brienne couldn’t help but wonder…

“Did the visitors bring any harm to him?”

Without any doubt, Beth shook her head ‘no’ as she glanced back at Brienne with a defeated smile.  “No...Thoros has only stayed with us this long for only one reason.”  Confused, Brienne searched the young woman’s face for understanding.  “I believe he has someone he would like for you to meet.”     

Amongst the crowd that now gathered, a faint murmuring rose as the news of Thoros’ imminent demise was becoming more apparent.  Men started to glance around as they spoke in hushed whispers while women lingered in clusters with question as word continued to spread; children of all ages began to play on the icy puddles or climb up onto the white marble slabs that were littered throughout the cave.  Off from a distance, Ser Gavin Bower stood still in the tunnel that led to the pink hall.  With a quick pace, Beth came to his side to embrace her husband.  Brienne swallowed hard.

_It’s true.  He’s dead._

As the couple walked hand in hand through the crowd they walked towards Brienne with a steely determination.  With tears in his eyes, Gavin spoke to Brienne with a look of distress.  

“Lady Brienne.  Thoros would like to see you.”

Relief crashed onto Brienne’s chest as she realized she still had a chance to say her goodbyes.  Looking down at Beth, Brienne squeezed the woman’s hand and followed the pair down the great tunnel towards the pink hall.  

Among the silvery pink stones that were embedded into the walls, Thoros of Myr was surrounded by several people dressed in heavy brown robes while he lay down on a comfortable bed made of several different types of furs.  With some horror, Brienne could see how frail the red wizard had become; his translucent skin had thick, black and blue bruises on the backs of his hands, his flesh had withered to show the brittle bones that still held him together; most of his silvery hair had fallen out now, liver spots on his head could be seen splattered across his skin without prejudice.  Brienne was disturbed to see that how much he had to struggle just to breathe, every effort within his chest rose and fell with a labored, watery roll of phlegm.  The air was heavy in the room, it had a thick, sickly sweet smell; it was the smell of death. Brienne knew with certainty that their time together was now coming to a close.  

Though his eyes were closed, Thoros knew Brienne had entered the room.  With a stitch in his breathing, the dying man held out his withered arm to the Maid of Tarth and called for her to be at his side.  The wall of people in brown robes turned around to see Brienne approach them.  To her utter amazement, one of the men standing at Thoros’ side was Septon Meribald.

With wide eyes, Brienne stared at Septon Meribald as she made her way over to Thoros.  His frail hand made a small pat on the side of his bed, gesturing for Brienne to sit at his side.  Glancing back at the septon with questions racing in her mind, she felt her strong fingers entwine with Thoros’ frail ones.  His eyes fluttered open.

“My Lady Brienne.  I need you to listen carefully; I can feel now that my time has come to an end.”  In spite of her resolve, Brienne could feel tears well again in her eyes as a watery roll of breath struggled from the man who saved her.  “I once spoke to you about the flames.  I promised to you that I would reveal it, only when the time was right.  With Septon Meribald here, I am now able to tell you what it was that I saw.”

The room had mostly cleared in the pink hall, only septons dressed in the heavy brown robes remained as Brienne sat at her friend’s side.  Slowly, he continued.

“When Beric Dondarrian and I were first sent out to the Riverlands, we were sent at the command of Ned Stark to keep the peace and to restore the king’s justice to the land.  Ser Gregor Clegane led a party to ravish the Riverlands; homes were destroyed, fields were lit to torch, women and children had been raped and murdered.  I've known Ser Gregor; I was there in the throne room after the Sack of King’s Landing; I was there when Tywin Lannister presented the bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon to King Robert.  Their little bodies...what Gregor Clegane did to those children...Tywin had to wrap their little bodies in Lannister flags to hide all of the blood.  When King Robert had finally left the throne room, Tywin Lannister had ordered for the bodies to be removed.  A puddle of thick blood was left where each little child had lain.  I was bereft.  Such a monster like Clegane is incomprehensible Brienne; there is only a darkness in him.

“If Ser Gregor could be so ruthless to such little children, I knew that his sack in the Riverlands would be no different.  We set out under good faith; we believed that King Robert and Ned Stark were men worthy to follow, serve and obey.  When both men had died, something within all of us had died too.  We were at a loss: what was justice?  Is it blood for blood?  How can forgiveness be granted when there is no remorse in such a creature such as Clegane?  When word of King Joffery’s brutality reached our ears we knew that all of the good lords were dead; with it the Brotherhood without Banners was born; we had set out to deliver King Robert’s justice from his grave to bring the Mountain down, once and for all.  Somewhere along the way we also believed in helping the smallfolk would give us a sense of meaning as well.  It did; it gave us purpose.  But then the Red Wedding had happened, and with it, everything had changed.”

Brienne felt a small shudder roll across her back as she remembered Lady Stoneheart.  Her clotted skin, her ravaged throat, her croaking voice.  Septon Meribald looked down at Brienne with compassion, she in turned looked back at Thoros with a careful look as he continued.

“I begged Beric not to bring her back; he made a choice and with it followed the end of the Brotherhood we once knew.  In the backwash of such ill tidings the men who remained with us begged of me to take ownership and lead them in place of Beric.  I refused.  Instead, I allowed for Lady Stoneheart to take his place.  I regret that, bitterly.  Under her leadership we all fell so low.  We were broken men; justice became a farce.  We were no longer stewards of peace; we had become savage, snarling twisted men. When we first began the Brotherhood we were in search of a monster.  In the end, we in turn became the monsters we sought.  

“The night you died...it was the first night in a long time I could see anything within the flames.  The flames spoke and showed me that Ser Gregor Clegane has been brought back to us as a perversion; he is unnatural now...he is no longer human.  He’s a monster, plain as it is.  It was shown to me that this abomination means to champion Cersei Lannister in her trial against the Faith.  Should he win, should this...creature succeed, there will be many more made in his image, a whole host made from the dark arts of blood magic.  Armies made up to be like Clegane will rise up, and with it will follow the end of mankind in its dark path.  The man who created Clegane in his image has already made plans should his champion succeed; he will have the support of the queen, he will have the finance of the Crown and he will not stop until his perversion flourishes.  This man sees himself to be the father of darkness; he means to create an unresting army of what he see to be the perfect soldier; men without needs, men without guilt, men without conscious, men without humanity. If his champion succeeds, with it follows the death of our humanity.”

A sinking feeling claimed Brienne’s heart.  She had heard of the trial by combat that Cersei was waiting for.  She knew the Faith had not selected a champion as of yet.  It wasn’t until she felt Septon Meribald’s knowing gaze did she understand that it would be her who would champion the Faith.  With a startled look, Brienne found the strength to speak.

“You had once said to me that no mortal man would be able to strike down such a creature.  You told me that I was not a monster, that I was nothing like Stoneheart...I am a woman returned from death.  What am I then?”  

The tears in Brienne’s voice made Thoros hold onto Brienne’s sweating hands with a strength that startled her.  Licking his lips, he continued with a faint smile.

“You...dear Brinnie; you stand somewhere peculiar between life and death, good and evil, right and wrong.  You were not born of this earth to be a fair maid and to meekly serve her lord husband; you were not born a man to thoughtlessly follow orders as a lumbering soldier.  You were brought into this world _as you are_ for a reason. You are a true knight. You will be the mother of peace, and it has been my greatest honor to know you.”

The tears fell as Thoros finished his thought.  Her face screwed tight with an uncomfortable foreboding.  Shaking her head with tight lips, Brienne spoke haltingly.

“You are dying...because of me.  You brought me back at the cost of your own...and I’m...I’m not someone who’s worthy of such praise--”

Thoros interrupted Brienne’s tired excuses.  With a voice that sounded clear and young he reminded her who she was with a startling conviction.

“You are worthy, Brienne.  Remember the prayers that were spoken in your wake.”  He held up a withered hand to the Maid’s cheek with such kindness.  With a satisfied smile he continued.

“Remember my dear: Only death can pay for life.”     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...my browser search history is totally messed up now. For your own sake, please do not do a Google  
> image search on 'wet gangrene.' Unless, of course, if that's your thing...in that case, have fun! : P
> 
> I had a lot of fun with the Jaime and Tommen pairing in this chapter. It's so sweet to think the two of them  
> connecting like a father and son would. And Cersei...that's a kettle full of crazy I'd like to keep brewing for now!
> 
> Brienne's finally going to get out of that blasted cave here soon! Me thinks she's gonna do a little road trip to  
> King's Landing. Hmmm...maybe papa Selwyn will show up too?


	7. So That You Will Hear Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadows are cast; a regent is chosen; the Evenstar is welcomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooooo! Sooo...recent holiday events threw me off of my writing track for this week. I am deeply sorry for the delay.
> 
> Can I just say how much fun this is? Seriously, this is a challenge, but I'm having a great time! Like, I am running on  
> far less sleep than I used to, I'm terrible now at returning phone calls/texts, I'm constantly draining my cellphone battery  
> as I click away at this whenever I get a free moment...but you know what? I am having a really, really good time! : )
> 
> My only hope is that all of you are having fun reading it. Thank you again to everyone who leaves kudos, comments...but more  
> importantly, a big thank you to everyone for simply reading! If only my mom and a stray cat were reading this I'd still be having a blast! Seriously, thank you.

The title for this chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda. If you're interested, you can read it [here](http://allpoetry.com/So-that-you-will-hear-me).  

___________________________________________________________ 

 

 

Upon the hour of Thoros of Myr's death a great bonfire was lit, committing his mortal remains to an eternal embrace of winds amongst smoke and ash.  

Hundreds of men, women and children, those who remained of the new brotherhood, stood vigil with a loving reverence as the great wreath of flames consumed what was left of their leader.  In the haze of an inky smog, Brienne was torn between keeping a steady watch over Thoros' pyre and glancing back at Septon Meribald from across the clearing.

With a loud crack, load bearing branches began to give way under the hot fires that burned beneath them. With a few more loud snaps and crashes, a series of loud pops were soon heard as the dry wood started to feed the unquenchable flame. A groaning creak of dead wood began to fill the air, stunning the mourners with a new vigilance; several people started to step wearily back from the great pyre. Tall licks of flames curled against the rising cold winds and with one final groan the center mass of the bon fire collapsed, erupting into a great tower of bright flame.  Sparks and embers flew in every direction as ravens scattered with a thunderous call.

Brienne felt a lump start to form in her throat as other people who had been assembled around the flames began to weep anew. A tight crease of worry began to form on the Maid of Tarth's forehead while she felt Septon Meribald's eyes study her from across the pyre. It wasn't until then did she began to notice how other people who surrounded her began to slowly back away as they whispered to one another.  With no discretion, they darted their eyes across Brienne as they looked back down onto the snowy grounds beneath their feet.

The looks of derision were nothing new to the Maid; she had learned to ignore the looks of scorn and humiliation for many years, forcing herself to accept to blatant criticism...more than any person should ever have to.  Still though, a flash of pain still lingered. Failing to ignore the confused looks that surrounded for much longer, Brienne searched for the long, black hair of Beth Bower and slowly walked towards her; Beth made her way towards Brienne, meeting her halfway in the clearing.

"Why is everyone staring?  Have I somehow given offense?"

Beth let out a deep breath, icy white clouds formed into a vapor as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. Brienne studied the gesture again with a new understanding.

_She does that only when she speaks to me. I make her nervous._

With heavy, downcast eyes, Beth eventually looked up at Brienne's imposing form and made a faint smile. With a strange sense of comfort, Beth took hold of Brienne's hand while her young face turned blank.

"Lady Brienne. You give no offense; the rest of the brotherhood are only noticing what we've have seen for a long time."  Confused, Brienne quirked her eyebrows together with anticipation.  With a gentle voice, Beth continued as she could see the worry grow in Brienne's face.

"You cast no shadow."

A strange chill filled the young maid as she followed her eyes down to where Beth's gaze now lingered.  Looking down towards her feet, Brienne could see the long, dark shadows that trailed behind every person who stood assembled near the bonfire, shadows that were long, distorted replicas of the people they belonged to. Underneath her own form, by the light of a great blaze, Brienne could see that she did indeed cast no shadow.

Looking around her, stunned by this revelation, the young maid saw the polite faces of men and women while young children stared back at her with a blend of awe and fear. Squeezing Brienne's large hand into her small one, Beth smiled wanly as Brienne looked back down at her.  

"You're the daughter of fire."

Feeling a strange wash of understanding and confusion, Brienne squeezed Beth's hand back as she faintly nodded at her words. Against the swirl of smoke and snowflakes, Brienne bowed her head and made her way back into the entrance of the cave with an awkward silence. With every step, she could feel a hundred pair of eyes follow her shadowless form.

Down a long corridor, Brienne cringed as she started to feel a strange cramp seized her abdomen.  She ignored it and continued on.

_I must still be healing.  I'll be fine..._

By the time she finally made her way into the interior of the cave the cramping continued with a fresh vengeance. Feeling ill, Brienne made her way to an alcove the brotherhood had designated as a privy.

A cleansing breath filled her lung; it followed soon with a slow, measured exhale.  In the cool silence of the secluded room, Brienne discovered the source of the lingering wetness from between her legs that morning. She had first assumed it was only her arousal from the dream she had awoken from, her dream about her and Jaime. In her haste to attend to Thoros' side during his last moments, she never had a moment to bathe or much else; with shaking hands, Brienne had revealed within the folds of her small clothes that she had received her first moon's blood since her rebirth.

With an odd sense of relief and a strange trace of worry, Brienne took a comfort in knowing that in spite of her death, in spite of an impossible resurrection and the unearthly ability to cast no shadow, Brienne could at least accept the fact that she was not a monster; in spite of everything, she was still a woman.

 

 

 

_______________________________________________________

King's Landing:

  
  
  
  
Seven days had passed; King Tommen was pleased that he had been granted the right to choose his regent.    

In the end, Tommen had to decide between his father-in-law and his uncle, a task that most would not envy.  Though his beautiful wife remained in Highgarden to await her trial by the Seven, Tommen still felt an insistence that it would be decent, proper even, to choose Mace Tyrell since he was now part of his family.  Had Margery remained in King’s Landing, most in the capitol would have assumed which choice for regent would have been the most obvious.

Though he loved his mother fiercely, Tommen still felt a strange sense of unease at the very idea of her returning to regency following her trial by combat.  In her presence, he felt like a nuisance rather than a king; a burden that had to be tolerated and endured rather than be respected or listened to.  When she wins her trial by combat, who will she be forced to contend with in order to gain the regency back?  Mace Tyrell or his uncle, Jaime.  

His uncle remained a mystery for the little king; for as long as Tommen could remember, Uncle Jaime had been away at war either as a soldier or a prisoner for most of his memory.  He had been absent for most of his life, but what was most important to him was the fact that he was there _now_. What drew Tommen to his uncle, he couldn't yet quite define, but he was please by how well he was treated by him.  Whenever the little king spoke, Jaime made sure he'd stop to listen to him carefully; he would even offer to take a knee to hear his king’s opinions and commands. Never once did his uncle look down upon him with a lingering impatience, a frosty glare or with  contempt in his eyes.  

Uncle Jaime even had the decency to listen to ideas the little king would entertain, even contributing to the conversation with a sincere curiosity and ease: Where do fish sleep during the long winter? How tall is the sky and how could you ever measure it?  How are lions related to kittens? Was it possible to build a catapult so large it could throw objects to hit the moon?  Would people ever be able go in that catapult and touch the moon?

On and on questions continued, but not once did Uncle Jaime interrupt Tommen or discourage his creative thinking.  Lord Tyrell once frowned upon the little king for asking such questions during a small council meeting; by then, it was clear to Tommen who would be his regent.

 

 

 

 

Though regency had become an exhausting endeavor, Jaime reluctantly admitted to himself that it felt good to have his mind be so distracted.  When he was younger, the Young Lion once had the stamina to fight grim battles for hours at a time without any traces of weariness; these days, he now found himself suddenly exhausted within less than an hours time spent in the small council chambers.

It wasn’t the work that had been so tedious to Jaime; it was the _people_ who exhausted him.  Every word spoken in the capitol felt so rehearsed and contrived; every exchange of dialogue was writ either with double entendres, veiled threats or submerged under deep layers of historied subtext.

It was honesty and innocence that Jaime now craved; perhaps that was the reason why he had been so taken to his son. Here, in the scrambling rats nest of the capital, pompous lords and perfumed knights strutted and fretted around court while they pecked and bickered over wealth, lands and titles.  The acrid swirl of gossip, slander and whispers lingered in every darkened corner of the Keep; Jaime quickly learned to be leery of those who always had a smile painted onto their faces, those were the ones who concealed their true intentions under the false flag of friendship.   _How on earth did Cersei ever want all of this obligation?  I'd sooner stick my head in a hornet's nest than to want this responsibility again._

Thoughts of his sister had plagued Jaime. It had been the very idea of her that made him linger in the Riverlands for as long as he could. Following the surrender of Raventree Hall, Jaime had slowly began to brace himself for a confrontation with Cersei...and once he would set his eyes upon her...

 _“Cersei_ _is a lying whore, she's been fucking Lancel_ _and Osmund Kettleblack_ _and probably Moon Boy_ _for all I know._ ”

Following the capture of the Brotherhood supporter from the dilapidated inn, Jaime slowly returned to King’s Landing with the weight of a heavy stone set in his stomach.  Though yet unseen, the sight of the Red Keep always loomed ahead in Jaime's horizon like a specter, and with it, all thoughts of his sister began to morph with revulsion as his face would begin to pale while his jaw would start to clench.  

Once his retinue had crossed the threshold into King’s Landing, however, thoughts of his anger and rage began to dissolve like a castle made of sand built too near a shoreline. In the end, all Jaime could feel was disappointment; in her, of course, but he was mostly disappointed in himself. _I could never see it. She never once took a step towards me; it was always I who came running towards her.  It was love only on her terms; my needs weren't even a distant afterthought to hers...How could I have been such a fool?_

Upon his return to the Red Keep, Jaime was surprised to learn of Cersei's imprisonment in the Grey Tower. Although she _may_ have ordered for a high septon’s death, and she _did_ want to see Tyrion's head mounted upon a spike, but to _murder_ her uncle just to restore herself as regent?  

Jaime paused; he remembered how unsettled both he and Cersei had felt once Kevan had all but said that he knew about their incestuous relationship.  Had Cersei felt threatened by Kevan, there existed the possibility that she could have... _Seven bloody hells. If I were the High Sparrow, I may have ordered her confinement as well._

Settled back into his old room in the White Sword Tower, Jaime had requested full, detailed reports on Cersei's condition within the lonely Grey Tower.  Septons and Lannister guards had all assured Jaime that Cersei had been granted every comfort in her cell and that she was decently fed and was granted a fireplace to keep her warm. _May as well keep her there for a while, at least I’d know she's safe.  If someone is bold enough to murder a Lannister’s within the Red Keep, it's possible that Cersei may be next._

A few nights later, a septon reported to Jaime how the former queen regent complained of a slight fever and a pain in her foot. With a hard twist of guilt in his heart, Jaime permitted Qyburn to assess the queen the next morning, making certain she would remain healthy until her trial by combat.  

And yet, _he would not visit her._

Jaime couldn't decide if he was punishing the mother of his children or rather, himself; in the end his hurt was still raw and his anger still lingered, but what remained unknown was he still did not know how he would react once he saw her. He did not trust himself... _yet_.

The next morning, Jaime received a message by his squire, Peck; in his hands was a small scroll that had been delivered by raven. On the parchment was an azure blue wax seal with a small impression of crescent moons and sunbursts on it.  

 _Tarth_.  

He knew his distractions from the Red Keep wouldn't last him forever. Over his morning meal, Jaime could feel a strange lurch in his stomach once he recognized the house seal impressed upon the blue wax. With trembling fingers he tucked the note, still unopened, into his coat pocket. For the remainder of the day Jaime felt grim and tense with a hard knot kinked in one of his shoulders; the unopened scroll still lingered in his coat pocket with a strange weight that haunted his every step.

That evening, Jaime stood alone in his room at the White Sword Tower while a fine drift of snowflakes began to shower down from the heavens, falling with a slow, sweet grace. Below him in the courtyard Jaime watched the large stone pavers below gradually turn into a shimmering, pristine white; trails of golden straw and piles of unattended horse dung began to melt away under a thick blanket of fresh snow. To Jaime, the world that surrounded him now had started to turn into a blank sheet of parchment; in this blank page, there was nothing written...and he could now write whatever he chose next.

With a small snap of the blue wax, Jaime awkwardly unfurled the small note with one hand and a quiet sigh: he began to read the words he had started to fear.

A quick glance at the note was read, but not fully absorbed; again, the words blurred past Jaime's eyes. By the fifth time Jaime re-read the note he finally understood: Lord Selwyn of Tarth had received Brienne's sword Oathkeeper without incident and was grateful. He also wrote to inform Jaime that by tomorrow, a ship sent to King's Landing to deliver an order of goods would also carry with it Podrick Payne, his Lannister escorts and one hundred soldiers of Tarth. On that ship would also include the passage of the Evenstar, Lord Selwyn of Tarth.

_The bereaved father of Tarth sails toward King’s Landing with one hundred soldiers in tow.  What must he think of me..._

 

 

________________________________________________________

The Grey Tower:

 

 

"I can remove the toe...but it would be safest to remove the entire foot--"

" _Remove my foot and I will remove your head!"_

Qyburn flinched at his queen's acidic tone; like her eyes, her voice burned with a rage like wildfire. Through gritted teeth, queen Cersei panted as though she were heavy with child and suffering labor pains.  Her wispy blonde hair was matted down to her scalp in a layer of dripping sweat; her once bright green eyes were now glassy and bloodshot, her face had a curious, swollen look about her as if she had been sobbing. The gangrene in her right foot was now spreading at an alarming rate.

Though he was no longer the master of whisperers in the small council, Qyburn still had the coin to pay for a few 'little birds' to keep an eye on his general interests. With the sudden return of Ser Jaime Lannister, a few little birds were sent off to flutter in his direction.

The news was scant but Qyburd did hear from two sources that he would be permanently removed from the Red Keep that very evening.  Bracing himself for a swift departure from his 'projects,' Qyburn made haste at dawn, discreetly moving his personal notes and effects from the dungeons of the Red Keep. By late morning, he was startled to hear that Ser Jaime Lannister had requested for him to see to the former queen regent's health.

Though he was sent to assess the queen's vitals, Qyburn was never allowed permission to treat the queen. After he left the Grey Tower, Qyburn made his case to the septon and to any who would listen that her Grace, Queen Regent Cersei, would only allow for _Qyburn_ to examine her for her illness. Distracted by matters concerning a note sent by raven for Ser Jaime, the queen's brother allowed permission for the disgraced maester to examine his sister without a second thought.

The first examination of the former queen regent commenced that afternoon; by the light of a dozen beeswax candles, Qyburn examined the queen's dainty foot under a wide, magnifying glass. Under the warped glass, the former maester was intrigued by what he found.

The foot was now a bright pink; the very tip of her large toe began to shrivel and pucker with leathery, blackened skin; the remaining skin on her offended toe began to turn into ominous shades of blues and blacks. The toenail now had a bright cast of a sickly yellow to it; her remaining toes on her foot began to swell also, the skin looked shiny with spots of small, wet blisters flicking her toes. The smell was horrifying; it had a sour, putrid odor like rotted meat.

Lifting his head from up the glass, Qyburn looked at his patient with a small grin he fought hard to reign in. With an even voice he informed his queen what options were left to her at this time. "The blood flow to this toe right here," Qyburn made a faint gesture with a small trace of his hands over the blackened toe, "is beyond my repair. I am afraid that amputation cannot be avoided, your Grace."

Slamming her eyes shut against her humiliation and pain, Cersei nodded her head wearily as tears fell down her cheek. Qyburn continued.  

" _If_ we are able to save the foot..."  Cersei opened her eyes with that dire warning.  "We will need to assess how much healthy tissue remains and which portions are now corrupted.  I've done some bold experiments with maggots before...the results were...promising."  

A deep look of revulsion darkened the former queen's features; Cersei felt her lower lip tremble with the thought of filthy, repugnant maggots feasting off the dead flesh of her once beautiful foot.  Faced with either this, or losing the entire foot, the former queen gave a single, curt nod as a thin groan slid from her lungs.

With a flush of rage, Cersei's only thoughts turned to Jaime as hot tears boiled and fell with a slow trickle down her red cheeks.  Displaying his ease with a cool smile, Qyburn reached into his examination bag and pulled out strange tools, thick bundles of white gauze and glazed jars filled with poultices and ointments. For only a moment, the former queen thought she saw a brief flicker of joy in the disgraced maester’s eyes.

In her silence, Cersei prayed for a distant miracle to save what remained of her foot; with contempt, she damned the silent sisters, the high sparrow, the faith of the seven and all those who blindly followed their dogma. With a small whisper, Cersei began to mumble to herself as Qyburn ceaselessly prodded her rotting foot.

" _Jaime will come for me. He will come for me..._ We were born together..."  A flash of pain tore through the former queen's foot, preventing her from speaking out loud the rest of her exhausted oath.  

Silently, she dwelt upon the rest, completing her ominous thought only to herself with dry, determined eyes.

 

 

  
  
_________________________________________________________

The Royal Harbor, Blackwater Bay:

 

 

 

The great ship from Tarth had finally made dock at the royal harbor by sunset the next evening.

Jaime sniffed the air of the Blackwater Bay with closed eyes and waited patiently. Since his campaign in the Riverlands, the Lion of Lannister considered his new position in life with a strange sense of curiosity for each new day.  When he lost his sword hand, Jaime had suffered a great blow to not only his ego, but his pride, his confidence and his sense of purpose...

And in the silent hell that had lingered in Jaime's mind, Brienne of Tarth was there to see him through it. He had only survived everything that followed because of her. In turn, Jamie felt that every honorable choice he had made since the loss of his hand had been done in light of her. But since her terrible passing, every morning Jaime forced himself to choose his new life; and somehow, this hard choice became his most solemn tribute to her memory.  Every choice he made now, he did it for her...so that maybe some day she would somehow know his heart; so that she would hear him in someway that could surpass the mortal measures of distance and time. 

Receiving the Lord of Tarth was an honor that Jaime would trust with only a precious few.  Had Tyrion had not murdered his son...  Jaime would have loved to imagine that he would have been standing next to Tyrion on the dock as well. Instead, Jaime stood with Peck and fifty Lannister guards along with one hundred gold cloaks securing the passages that surrounded the royal harbor. Although Lord Selwyn may have arrived with peaceful intentions, Jaime felt compelled to preserve the peace for his son's sake in light of the unexpected arrival of one hundred soldiers from Tarth.

The first to disembark from the vessel was the soldiers that had been promised; one hundred lean men, dressed in gold and blue armor with small traces of the rose pink lined the enameled plating to represent the house colors of Tarth. All men held great oak shields as they cleared a path for the next to follow from the ship.

Two Lannister guards with little distinction made their awkward way back down onto solid land with wobbly knees and a faint smattering of vomit on their jerkins.  Both had meekly offering up Ser Jaime the briefest nods of their heads as they passed him; they both still felt shamefaced for failing to keep The Maid of Tarth secure.

One of the last to disembark from the vessel was Podrick Payne; he held the honor of escorting Lord Selwyn of Tarth down the long gangplank with a thoughtful, steady pace.

Jaime never really gave any consideration to Brienne's family in terms of appearance; it was astounding to watch the Evenstar step onto the harbor deck with such a noble, distinguished presence; much how Brienne would walk as she tried hard to ignore Jaime's constant blather.  He was as tall as his daughter, with her eyes and nose. A salted breeze tangled the silver and pale gold hair on his head, setting it off in the distant light of a golden sunset.  Lord Selwyn had a silvery beard that was freshly trimmed with a smart, dapper look that underscored a tasteful, almost understated air surrounding him. 

He was dressed in a freshly tailored, evening blue doublet with charcoal grey breeches and black, salt stained boots. Draped across his shoulders was a thick, silvery grey seal pelt over a long grey cloak; the unadorned presence of Lord Selwyn was reminiscent to Jaime of how most men in the north would always appear: unimpressed and always glaring.  Strapped around the Lord of Tarth's waist, Jaime found the Lannister red scabbard; her father held a tight, white knuckle grip on the lionhead pommel of Brienne's beautiful sword; _her_ Oathkeeper.

It shouldn't have bothered Jaime, but seeing another man hold Brienne's sword with such possession did something to him. Swallowing past a tightness in his throat, Jaime tried to offer up a reserved, welcoming smile but it felt as if he had already failed Selwyn; he held out his only hand out to the Evenstar with a cool determination.

Clear, focused eyes were trained on him.   _Brienne's eyes._   They remained cold, brilliant, and unwavering; the way they lingered on him, it almost seemed as if Jaime had just admitted to slaughtering the Evenstar's daughter himself.

A moment passed; then, another one.  With a sharp wind that blasted his cheeks, Jaime understood what little regard this man held for him.  With a tight pinch in his chest, Jaime pulled in a shallow breath as he blinked fast with wounded eyes. Slowly, his extended hand began to lower while he glanced down at the Lord of Tarth’s boots with an unknowing submission; Lord Selwyn of Tarth surprised Jaime as he finally reached out for his resigned hand with both hands in return.

With a warm, firm shake, Selwyn kept his eyes on Jaime and offered up only a modest smile. Relieved, Jaime returned the grace of his guest and a faint smile as well.   The wail of bitter sea winds pierced the silence as fat seagulls screamed overhead, the Kingslayer greeted Brienne’s father with a gentle voice and spoke the words he had rehearsed in his head all day.    

"My lord.  I wish we had not met under such...terrible circumstances.  The hospitality of his Grace and King's Landing is yours."

Squeezing Jaime’s solitary hand between his own, Lord Selwyn thanked the fabled Kingslayer with a warm smile while blinking back tears that were soon lost in astonishing blue eyes. 

"Ser Jaime. The honor is mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's about to happen, right? You know that there's a total bro talk coming, right?
> 
> The next chapter...I'm so excited! The majority of it was written over a week ago but I've still got some  
> fine tuning to do. As for this chapter...well, let's just say this one was a beautiful bastard for me. This was  
> some of the nitty gritty I needed to tease out before I get to shoot my proverbial wad! 
> 
> OK, that was gross...I'm a total dork now. Back to writing!


	8. Ode To The Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podrick swears an oath; a son misses his mother; a proud lion is slaughtered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful. I am so excited. Today is a good day because I get to publish this chapter!
> 
> Everyone here is so amazing...all of you who make such interesting, thoughtful, lovely comments;  
> everyone of you who leave kudos; everyone here who simply reads...I feel so grateful. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter; I had a lot of fun writing it. : )  
> Lux

The title for this chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Ode-To-The-Book) if you wish. 

 

\---------------------------------------------------

King’s Landing:

 

 

Podrick Payne pushed his food across his silver plate with a defeated look in his eyes.  From across the great table, Jaime watched the young lad, noting how little he ate since his return from Tarth.  King Tommen sat next to his regent, Uncle Jaime; Jaime would not allow himself to sit too close to his son, but he was close enough to hear his Grace should he wish to have his attention over the sound of the loud music playing.

Lord Selwyn of Tarth sat at the high seat of honor at King Tommen's right.  Jaime watched his son with some careful discretion; he could feel the eyes of the members in court lingering over the high table with some interest; they were no doubt speaking of rumors concerning how similar in appearance both the king and his regent were.  Feeling the collar of his dove grey doublet grow tight against his neck, Jaime took a deep sip from his cup as he looked away, carefully listening to the little king speak with the honored Lord Selwyn.

Tommen had been riveted by his guest; the Evenstar told his Grace of how his proud island fought off the invasion of the Gold Company in careful detail.  Nothing gruesome was shared of course, but Jaime had been in enough battles to know how to fill in all of the blanks.  With thick gasps and wide eyes, King Tommen watched every word pour out of Selwyn’s mouth with rapt attention; he was especially impressed how the islanders of Tarth managed to sink the ships of the Gold Company by lying in wait in the bowels of dormant volcanic tunnels on a moonless night. Though heroics were praised thoroughly by his Grace, King Tommen soon commanded tales of the long dormant volcano that resided on the isle of Tarth.  Lord Selwyn blessed his king with a hearty laugh as he told him of the great eruption during the Age of Heroes which claimed thousands of lives.  Soon after, with a conspiring voice filled with comical whispers, Lord Selwyn shared rumors of having fossilized dragon eggs hidden deep within the volcano of Tarth as well.

The gathering was a small affair, only a few hundred were in attendance. Though the feast was hospitable, there was nothing lavish or egregious about the banquets royal offerings; only humble fare was permitted to be served as a means to set an example for residents of King’s Landing. Though Jaime gave little care for what was served at the meal, he was quietly displeased to see a great boar had been served as the main course for the guests.   With dark memories filling his eyes, Jaime refrained from any servings of the boar and supped only on roasted gamefowl instead.  Judging by the looks of Pod’s green face, it appeared that his hearty serving of boar had been a mistake as well; with a dark scowl on the young squire’s lips, it was apparent to Jaime that Pod failed to notice what he had been served to him only until it was too late.

The soldiers of Tarth ate as well as they sang; vocal melody was considered to be a cherished pastime for the residents of the Sapphire Isles. Through sloshing horns of foaming ale and drunken, easy smiles, the romantic soldiers of Tarth grew bolder with each passing song that was played with string and horn, even harmonizing with one another in a lovely, chilling grace.  Intrusive memories flashed through Jaime’s mind as some of the familiar tunes Brienne would quietly hum to herself would come crawling back to him.  With a fresh drag of wine, Jaime winced as if a raw wound on his side had just been plucked.

To everyone’s relief, Lord Selwyn’s soldiers were never meant to be received as a hostile presence to the Crown.  Shortly after the Evenstar’s reception at the royal harbor, Ser Jaime was informed by Lord Selwyn himself that Podrick Payne had become an accomplished diplomat during his brief stay at Tarth.  That night, Podrick Payne met with Jaime to explain Lord Selwyn’s meaning.

“He’s a good man, Ser; far finer than I had ever imagined a father could be, considering someone who had just l-l-l-lost his daughter.”  Pod’s face was dark with a haunted recollection, but his eyes shined bright with a vague optimism.  Intrigued, Jaime silently encouraged for the boy to continue just as servants began to escort the soldiers of Tarth to their rooms within the Red Keep.

“I t-t-t-told Lord Selwyn of Lady Brienne’s vow to find the Stark girl and to keep her safe; he felt it had been a noble cause, something his daughter would have upheld without any deterrence.” Jaime watched Pod as the young squire began to nervously twitch his face off to the side with a less than subtle grimace.  Landing his eyes back onto Jaime, Pod continued with level shoulders and a proud chin jutted out with resolve.

“Ser.  I have told the Evenstar that I intend to return to the Riverlands and search for Lady Stark myself; it is my wish to uphold the vows of the Lady Brienne.  Lord Selwyn tried to talk me out of it, but I insist.”  Jaime felt his face grow slack with quiet admiration.  “The Lord of Tarth has said that if I’m pig headed enough to do so, he said that I shall not lack for anything.  Lord Selwyn has given me leave of one hundred of his men to take with me and to return to the Riverlands in search of the Lady Sansa.  I had heard…I heard a rumor that the Lady Arya is alive as well.”  

Jaime’s eyebrows quirked up his face with that surprising bit of news.  “I mean to take fifty men with me to the Eyrie and to send fifty men to the Wall in search for either girl.  If neither turns up then we will reconvene at Winterfell and go from there.”

Podrick Payne watched the soldiers of Tarth wander past them in the hallway leading to the guest chambers within the Red Keep.  It was clear to Jaime that Pod now longed to serve with other men but this time, he had the hopes to fulfill a vow for someone whom he still admired.  

“I vow that I will not rest until I find the Lady Sansa, Ser; for Lady Brienne’s honor and yours.  This I swear, by the Old Gods and New.”

Jaime wanted to laugh through a filter of bitterness that had all but impeded his hopes. Though it may have felt it good to laugh, it would have not have been wise to do so.  

The Kingslayer had once heard such steely determination; it was not so long ago that he heard a similar vow within the Red Keep.  Once upon a time, high above in the fabled White Sword Tower, Jaime once handed the Maid of Tarth a beautiful sword and what remained of his tattered honor and she in turn vowed to him to fulfill an oath they had once made to a dead woman.  And now here he stood; the Maid’s squire, a young lad who witnessed horrors no child should ever see, and he was now vowing to return to those horrors to fulfill a pointless oath...an oath once made by a stupid stubborn wench who was now also dead.

_On and on, we continue to make the same mistakes… funny how we never choose to learn from them._

Reluctantly, Jaime had to give Podrick Payne his blessing as well…provided he would agree to accept one hundred Lannister soldiers to go with him also.  Since the former queen regent had been dispossessed of her powers, Jaime’s first ruling as regent had been to place sanctions on a royal decree to have the Stark girl murdered in the name of justice for the death of King Joffrey.  Jaime had hoped that such an announcement made throughout the north would purchase some goodwill towards the Crown; hopefully, the announcement would also entice either Lady Sansa or Lady Arya to make their whereabouts to be known as well.

 

 

 

The next day was another tedious set of meetings with the small council in the hopes to accelerate payments to the Iron Bank; Jaime ardently supported the idea of imposing a modest tax increase for all of the exports from Westeros.  Lords bickered and squirmed uncomfortably; Jaime wanted to gnash his teeth as he childishly imagined slipping a sword through members of the small council who constantly objected to his proposals but failed to offer up practical alternatives in return.  Rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his hand, Jaime made an effort to conceal his relief once Mace Tyrell had agreed to revisit the idea of a modest tax increases on exports for the next day.              

Thankful for an end to the meeting, Jaime made his way out of the small council chambers with a brisk pace and a deep sigh of relief.  With a few hours before the evening meal, Jaime had hoped to have a few moments peace but the idea soon gave him pause before his quick pace started to grow slower.   _What am I to do?_

His days as a member of the Kingsguard was a life filled with service and duty, but he also had made the time for leisure as well.  In those days... _when everything felt so damn simple_...those days he would spend his free time either sparring, jousting, spending time with Tyrion or find a way to steal a few clandestine hours with his sister.   _That was when I had a hand; I also had a father and baby brother...and a sister who I had thought loved me._

Even when he had been returned from his imprisonment, Jaime may have been short a hand, but he never lacked for company or duty.  The Lion of Lannister grew to enjoy his new position as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; there were more stresses and more responsibility, of course, but his new role in leadership blessed him with a sense of meaning and gave him an abstraction of honor for his life.  A new life he almost chose not to fight for had it not been for one person.   _It’s all been because of Brienne…_

From out of nowhere, Jaime remembered a time when he and Cersei shared a brief moment of intimacy, days before he ambushed Ned Stark in the streets of King's Landing.  As his sister held up her hair while Jaime tightened the laces to her corset, Cersei mentioned with disdain a conversation she had with her husband earlier that day.

"He deigns to tell me that in spite of winning and ruling the seven kingdoms, Lyanna Stark had left a hole in him that nothing would ever fill. He said that... _to_ _me, Jaime._ "

Jaime hadn’t been aware he was standing in the middle of the great hall leading from the throne room until another one of his many squires brought him a folded parchment sealed with a plain, beeswax seal.  Impressed upon it was the Seven pointed star.

 _The High Sparrow._       

Thanking the boy with distraction, Jaime waited to open the letter when he was secluded in a private chamber of the Red Keep.  Glancing over the terse words once over, Jaime swallowed hard and felt his heart race slightly.  He needed to speak to his Grace.  

   

 

"...and his Grace, King Pounce; the first of his name, Lord of the Mice and Protector of the Yarn, has commanded for his young bride, Queen Whisker, to be locked away for a thousand years in a dungeon made of ice and fish bones! But then, from out of nowhere, Lord Boots stormed into the throne room... and with a scream he raised up a sword made of fire and said..."

"Your Grace?" Uncle Jaime stood at the door to King Tommen's private solar with a small grin bridled on his face. "I'm sorry your Grace, is this a bad time?

Tommen was indeed preoccupied; Queen Whiskers was resting in his lap with the pads of her pink paws batting at the young king's hand in amusement. King Pounce was nuzzled close to his owners lap while Lord Boots was raised high above in Tommen's right hand with an esteemed air of superiority. Somewhat startled by his uncle's unexpected arrival, the little King lowered Lord Boots from the air and pulled the squirming cat towards his chest with a defensive posture.

"Uncle Jaime!  Of course not...you have important matters to discuss. _I am at your service_."

The words seemed well rehearsed and pointed. No doubt he had practiced these words many times over with the former queen regent.  

“You’re at _my_ service?  Forgive me; it appears to me, your Grace, _I_ ,along with your feline court, are here at _your_ service.”  Uncle Jaime’s gentle tease was of a great comfort to the young king.  Lowering Lord Boots back down to the stone floor with a meek smile and a sigh of relief, Tommen buried his pink face into the furry back of one of his cats while Uncle Jaime made a respectful path into the royal solar.   

Looking down at his king with some amusement and a faint apprehension, Jaime watched Tommen fuss over his fully grown cats as a means to feign some concentration.  With a gentle boldness, Uncle Jaime continued.  

“It appears I had caught you in the midst of a usurper’s call to war.”  Tommen smiled up at his regent with a wide grin; it appeared that the young king had lost another tooth sometime last night.  “Does King Pounce seek council at this ominous hour?”

Tommen shook his shaggy golden head with a bashful ‘no.’ Feeling awkward, Jaime looked down upon the reclining king and made a small request with his hand.  “With your leave, may I sit with you...your Grace?”

Nodding his head with a sense of duty, Tommen buried his fingers into the black fur of Queen Whiskers as Jaime took to the stone floor with his king.  Seated cross legged on the floor, Uncle Jaime reached over with a casual finesse to pet Lord Boots on his head.  Clearing his throat, Jaime continued.  

“Your Grace.  I’ve received a letter from the High Sparrow this afternoon.”  Jaime studied Tommen’s face for any signs of worry.  With a stony expression on Tommen’s face, Jaime continued.  “It appears...that the faith has _finally_ selected its champion.”  The young king buried his face into Queen Whisker’s neck as the room grew silent.  “The High Sparrow has called for the trial by combat to commence within a fortnight.  Do you understand?”

Though his little face was buried deep into the neck of Queen Whiskers, Jaime could see Tommen slowly nod his head; soon after, Jaime let out a small sigh of relief.  Watching his king with a tender sadness, Jaime nodded that his king understood.  A small, watery sniff could be heard from the deep folds of his Grace’s cat.

“Your Grace?”

A faint shudder could be seen in the little king’s shoulders.  With suddenly red eyes, Tommen whispered over a mouthful of downy cat fur.  “Why did they take so long?”

Jaime nodded at the king’s question.  He understood.  To have the faith to take over a month’s time to select their champion was strange, but it was within their rights.  Licking his lips, the regent replied with delicacy.  “I do believe, your Grace, that it the faith’s prerogative to take however long they choose to select their champion.  Your mother had the right to choose hers, so does the High Sparrow.”  

It was strange; Jaime had heard many things about Ser Robert Strong; however, he had yet to meet him. Rumors circulated, much like all rumors did within the Red Keep.  Tales of how Ser Robert never seemed to eat, sleep nor used the privy were all well-known stories.  When Uncle Kevan had died, it had been the commands of the former queen regent to have Ser Robert escort the remains of Uncle Kevan back to Casterly Rock moments before she was arrested.  Since then, news from Casterly had been sent; Jaime had been informed that Ser Robert would remain in the Westerlands for the protection of Kevan’s wife, Lady Dorna, until he had received notice of when the trial by combat would commence.

A deep sniffing could be heard from King Tommen again; Jaime’s heart broke to hear such things.  With a slow hand the regent tried to reach out to touch the little king’s head with compassion but felt a strange reservation.  Clenching his hand with frustration, Uncle Jaime lowered his hand back down as Tommen sniffed into Queen Whisker’s shoulders again.

“I want to see mother.”

Jaime felt a small splash of dread on his face.  Watching his king weep with a mournful sorrow, Jaime silently nodded his head before he spoke again in a hoarse voice.

“Of course...of course your Grace.  If it pleases you, we shall see her first thing tomorrow morning.”  Tommen nodded again with a flushed complexion and trembling lips.  Holding his cat tighter to his chest, Tommen quickly dried his eyes upon his velvet sleeves.

For a good deal of time, both Jaime and King Tommen sat cross legged on the stone floor from one another in a thick silence; surrounding them,  plump, black cats snoozed deeply within drifting patches of cozy sunlight, all of them snoring quietly without a care in the world.   

 

 

 

Following dinner, Jaime kept true to his word and provided Lord Selwyn of Tarth a personal tour of the White Sword Tower.  Both men lingered over the famed shields and the mounted swords of honorable knights who once served in the Kingsguard.  Jaime took delight in telling tales of Ser Arthur Dayne but Lord Selwyn seemed to have a particular interest for any tales concerning Ser Duncan the Tall.  With a laugh Jaime was pleased to share all that he could about the lumbering knight with the Evenstar; Jaime even went as so far as to clarify his own storytelling by making studious glances into the White Book with Lord Selwyn.  

Over smiles and cups of wine, Jaime and the Lord of Evenfall poured over the White Book; eventually, the page turned to Ser Jaime’s.  Feeling suddenly awkward, the newly appointed regent tried to remove himself from Lord Selwyn’s careful reading as he watched the icy waves of Blackwater Bay crashed up against the jagged shore of the Red Keep.  Growing nervous, Jaime drained his cup as his guest eventually cleared his throat.

“You’ve included my daughter into your entry...I did not…”  Jaime glanced back at Lord Selwyn with a quick glance.  “I did not image a Lord Commander would ever doing such a thing.”

The Round Room was well lit but Jaime tried hard to hide his face into the dark shadows of the room.  Slightly panicked, Jaime tried to sound casual as he glanced back over the bay with some desperation.  “I did not imagine a lot of things for myself as well, my Lord.  I did not imagine losing a hand, losing a father or a brother, losing a friend…”  Lord Selwyn’s attention perked up with that choice of words.  “Did not imagine becoming regent...it appears life is full of many surprises, Lord Selwyn.”

Facing Lord Selwyn again, Jaime saw a strange look cross his face before making assurances that nothing was amiss by including Brienne into his passage of the White Book.  For a long time, Selwyn studied Jaime with an unblinking gaze before it melted into a strange, knowing smile. Draining his own glass as well, Selwyn closed the White Book shut before he continued.  

“Oh, I’ve been forced to grow rather comfortable with surprises too, Ser Jaime.  Why...I can only imagine what you may think of me: a lord father with no other living heir, allowing for his only child, a daughter, to take up arms and to fight for a war that she fervently believed in.”

Feeling uncomfortable with this turn of the conversation, Jaime braced himself against the ledge of an open window just as Lord Selwyn continued; Jaime watched the Evenstar grip his hand over Brienne’s sword with white knuckles; Jaime could feel his throat begin to tighten.          

"I was not...I was not the best father. I could have been more attentive. Could have been more engaged.  When I lost my wife...Lillian, I began to feel something erode inside of me, like wood that's taken to rot; I was merely a presence...all of my strength was gone.  I began to shut down.  I spent more time alone in my study than I did with Brienne. Sometimes, I could hear her in my hallway, outside of the solar. She has a very singular gait...”

Selwyn paused with a shallow gasp. Jaime sighed once he understood what had made Brienne's father give pause to his own memory.

"Had."  

The use of the past tense was still hard for both men.

"She _had_ a very singular gait. Sometimes I could hear her hesitate to knock on my door; then she wouldn't...she would just pause there and slowly walk away. I traveled more than was needed; I even drank more than was necessary...I am not proud of my choices, Ser Jaime; I had foolishly assumed that because Brienne was so strong she would be fine without me...I realize now that it was _then_ when she had needed me the most. "

It felt as if though every breath the Lord of Evenfall spoke breathed in a new life into Brienne: Her silence, her sensitive heart, her independence; the look of inescapable loneliness Jaime would often see in her eyes; kind of like the blue eyes that now haunted Jaime now.  With a steady, reminiscent look on his face, the Lord of Tarth searched Jaime's face before he continued.

“You two had met before.”

Selwyn's words lingered in the air with such a sweet fondness.

Incredulous, Jaime felt his eyebrows pinch together with doubt as the shadow of a smile started to curl across his lips.  Charmed by the Lord Commander's surprise, Selwyn continued with a firm nod and a bright smile as he scratched the back of his silvery head with recollection.

“Aye.  I remember it.  I’ve been blessed and cursed with a long memory.  My mother was dying, you see; she had sent word for us, it was her wish to see her granddaughter one final time.  We had just lost my son Galladon earlier that year; _that was a very hard year_...there are some things I wish I didn't remember.

"Brienne and I soon made our voyage to the Stormlands and we stayed there for over three moons.  Once my mother had passed away and was buried, I had a notion: I made my decision to take Brienne to court.”  Selwyn paused, glancing down at the floor with fondness writ in his eyes; a turn of his emotions passed over his lips, reflecting the bittersweet memories only a father could feel for a child who was no more.

“I’ll admit I was curious to see how she would do.  Brienne was so...tenacious.  Stubborn.   _Wild_ with boldness. If I ever had the nerve to tell her she could not fly, she would have held her breath until feathers sprouted from her arms just to fly away and defy me.  I had to learn _very early_ that once Brienne made up her mind...there would be no way of ever changing it.”  A watery chuckle fell from the Evenstar's mouth.  Jaime smiled as well, nodding his head with a muted laugh.

“We finally made our way to the Red Keep and when he had entered she was thunderstruck. This was her first time off of Tarth, you see; she had only heard stories of the Red Keep; she saw the pictures in the books, but she never imagined how impressive it would be; how spectacular, how grand.

“King Aerys was...indisposed at the time.  Or so your father had informed the court.  You had just returned from Crakehall; your father was so proud to announce your return to court; you had become the toast of King’s Landing.  Every father there tried to win your favor so you would be forced to spend some time with their daughters…"  

The Lord of Tarth made a pointed glance at Jaime before he could continue.

"Brienne was so young then; it was never even a thought I could entertain.” A wry chuckle rumbled from Selwyn's lips.  

“ _Imagine_ : the _Young Lion_ married off to such a lowly house.” Jaime’s bright eyes started to grow dull with Selwyn’s astute presumption; with a numbing ache, Jaime silently conceded to this Lord's deduction as well.

_Imagine..._

“There were rumors in court you were already betrothed to Lysa Tully.” The Evenstar continued with a sigh.  “I wasn’t there to arrange a match for Brienne; _I should have_.  Any good father would have. I...I just wanted her to see the Red Keep.  I wanted her to see the Iron Throne and to walk down the wide marble halls of court with me; to have her little hand holding mine.  I just wanted her to see one of her fairy tales come to life.”  There was a heavy pause; Selwyn cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Needless to say, court life held no interest for my Brinnie.”  

Jaime felt a warm smile rise on his face once he learned of Selwyn’s pet name for his daughter.

“She was tired, she was hungry; she hated her dress and her new shoes pinched her feet.  Growing fussy, I knew our time in court was quickly coming to an end.  Your father must have noticed; he was a gracious man, Tywin.  He didn’t have to, but he crossed the room just to greet us; it was very gentlemanly, most magnanimous of him.  In his wake your sister followed obediently and you followed eventually.  

"So many fathers there wanted you to meet their daughters; all _I_ had wanted to do was to take Brienne back to the inn so she could change her clothes and feel comfortable again.”  Jaime’s face fell into a crestfallen gaze.  “Your father offered up his condolences to me; I had felt quite moved that he had remembered my son's death, as well as my mother's. He inquired about Tarth; I told him of the weather and of trade.  Your sister was bored, but you...you watched us talk so intently.  It was clear to me then you had admired your father; I can still see traces of him in you."  Jaime felt a strange comfort in that.  "Our conversation was not long but it was enough to satisfy a lord's requirement: to make my presence known in court.

“By the end of our conversation...I looked over at you...and you were smiling down at Brinnie.  She had wrapped her whole body behind my legs.”  Selwyn’s breath hitched in his throat.  “I could feel her tiny hands holding my breeches as if it were a lifeline. Her little head was buried under my coat...but I could feel her poking her head out from under it...just so she could stare back at you."

Selwyn’s words started to burn Jaime's heart.  He thought he had mourned Brienne with his entire being; this new pain that clenched him, left him breathless, only proved he still hadn’t mourned her entirely. Perhaps he never would.

“I...I don’t think you understand what that smile did to her, Jaime; you had peeled away every layer of confidence she had armed herself with. She never shied away from people when she was little; she was too innocent and trusting to hold such reservations: she loved openly, accepted others willingly and always met them without fear.  But you...she was smitten with you."

A fresh ache twisted Jaime's heart.

“Soon afterwards, I made our excuses and we had said our farewells.  You wished us a safe voyage home...and before we turned, you gave a small wave of your hand to Brinnie.  Still tucked under my coat, she stuck her head out...her head was just a mop of curls...and she waved back at you.  

"Your smile Jaime..." Laughter bled from Selwyn's mouth. "You smiled at her as if you had just won a tourney.”  Tears gathered in both men’s eyes; neither had the want to make eye contact.  

“That night, I tucked her into bed and she crooked her little finger at me; she had a secret.  So, I bent down, pressed my ear up to her mouth and she whispered, “I met the Warrior today.  He was _so beautiful_ , daddy.”

The tears fell freely from Selwyn’s eyes; his emotions had evolved past the point of pride or concern.  Jaime felt his heart sink; a knot in his throat bound both his breath and his words together. Willing his eyes to go dead he felt his lips part into a small O of defeat as he leaned against the window ledge with a new weight.  

With a slight turn of his shoulder and brisk wave of his hand, the Lord of Tarth dried his eyes with the back of his sleeve and cleared his throat valiantly.  Jaime felt his mouth go numb and useless as another part of his soul began to hollow out with grief.

"Following Robert's Rebellion, when the news of you and the Mad King reached Tarth, all anyone could do was say the word 'Kingslayer' whenever a Lannister name was mentioned. Brienne didn't know any better than; _I_ didn't know any better then. We only accepted public slander without even a second thought.  

"I never told her about the time she met the Young Lion at court only because...I believed that she would have rather _not_ known. I regret that now. _I know a lot of regret now_."  

He sniffed his nose, his cheeks were still wet; with tenderness, Selwyn unstrapped his scabbard; slowly, he held Oathkeeper up with both hands to appraise its regal beauty in the candle light. The Lannister gold burnished with a faint, coppery tint that made its opulence feel more romantic rather than intimidating.  Small pearls embedded into the hilt possessed a creamy, haunting luster that begged for it to be touched by reverent fingers. Thick rubies, blood red, _Lannister red_ , danced in the light with a flashing glow that reminded Selwyn of romantic sunsets off the warm waters of Volantis. The Valyrian blade was magnificent to behold, with its lean edge flashing bright against the red waves pounded into it.

"With my deepest respect, I cannot accept this blade."

The meaning of his words registered slowly for Jaime; raising his face in confusion, the Evenstar continued in spite of Jaime's wounded eyes. Sensing his hurt, Selwyn spoke carefully.

"My daughter’s bones will never be returned to Tarth; I've made my peace with that. When she went off to serve Lord Renly, I had learned to accept the fact that I may never see her again.

"Without her bones...I can pretend...that my little Brinnie is still alive somewhere."  Selwyn choked on his thick words. "I can pretend that she is off winning her wars, serving nobly; happily.  But if I return home with this..."  He held up the glorious sword with a hard fist and a firm upper lip.  "If I return home with this, I'm only going to be reminded that she is truly gone. _In every way_."  After a pause he finished with a thick whisper.  "I don't think I can survive that."

A heavy nod graced Jaime's head. Removing Oathkeeper from Lord Selwyn's hand was a strange mixture of both failure and relief.  Clutching the red scabbard with his only hand, the Lord Commander lowered it back down to his side and watched the Evenstar with hollow eyes as he remained seated on the window’s ledge.  

Though his face was raw with tears, a thin smile crossed Selwyn's lips as he pulled out a much worn scrap of paper from his breast pocket. Folded and unfolded a hundred times, the parchment looked almost glassine from frequent touching. Pulling open the note with a practiced ease, Jaime felt his breath hitch in the back of his throat. He recognized the childish scrawl of his own penmanship; Lord Selwyn held open the death notice Jaime had sent to him.

"I've lost count how many times I've read this. The first dozen times, I was in denial of such news. Later, when I came to terms with what was written, I began to obsess over every word you chose; every line you wrote felt like an enigma to me. But, I eventually understood my perplexity; it wasn't until I had received Oathkeeper did I understand what it was that you had truly written:  

"You loved her."

Blood drained from Jaime's face. His eyes swelled and softened as the firm knot in his throat finally loosened. A small, shuddering breath finally escaped his mouth; his neck began to go flush and it's pink fade quickly climbed up his ears.  Watching Jaime's emotions rise and fall, Selwyn softly nodded his head with understanding and read the letter out loud.

_"Tonight I can write the saddest lines:_

_Your daughter, Lady Brienne, is with us no more._

_One thousand heroes came before her; ten thousand knights will follow in her wake,_

_But not one man will ever hold a candle to her bravery, her innocence or her strength."_

The words spoken were not so much read as they were recited by heart.  Selwyn studied Jaime as he read the letter back to him; he watched his watery green eyes lower to the floor as fat tears gathered, but did not fall. The Lord of Evenfall had intended to recite the entire letter by heart but refrained once he saw how cruel it would have been.  It had become apparent to Selwyn that as he spoke these words, he was reciting them to a grieving boy who was only disguised as a man grown.

Folding the paper tenderly and placing it back into his breast pocket, the Evenstar's eyes remained fixed on Jaime. In spite of court etiquette, in spite of rank, station or decorum, Lord Selwyn of Tarth slowly raised up a soft hand to the side of the Young Lion's neck like a father would do to a son.  

Somewhere deep inside of Jaime, a dark, hidden place buried beneath the hard bedrock of ego and denial, he felt something raw pull deep inside of him. As the Evenstar's hand cupped the back of Jaime's golden head, he heard a muffled sob wrenched behind his own lips. Jaime's heart began to shatter; his mouth tried to hold back trembling lips, his shoulders tried to stay level in spite of a shudder, his eyes filled with sorrow...and he was exhausted. He was tired; he no longer wanted to play the role of the proud Lannister.

Thick tears finally fell.  Filled with shame and terrified of Lord Selwyn's judgement, Jaime felt his anxieties feed his tears as his tears amplified his grief. Finally, the young man dolefully nodded his head at Selwyn while he whispered out one heavy word in a broken voice:

“Yes.”

Bowing his head with sorrow and tears, Jaime closed his eyes and felt his face slowly melt into the shoulder of a stranger. Lord Selwyn's strong hand began to hold onto the back of Jaime's golden head; he held him with a peculiar, accepting silence. He touched the back of his hair with soothing fingers and quietly welcomed Jaime's tears along with his own. There were no other words to speak, no judgement to fear; there was only compassion and the sound of waves crashing on the rocky shore nearby.

It was Selwyn's good grace and complete acceptance of Jaime that had finally allowed for him to be brutally honest with his emotions. It was in this moment, a young boy finally found the courage to kill the proud lion that still staggered inside; he had to kill a vainglorious beast so that a man of honor could finally be born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...Iiiiiiiiii...willllll...alwayyysss...looovve...yoouuu...Selwyynnnn!
> 
> Selwyn was a pure joy to write about because he's such a mystery! I think it'll be safe to  
> say at some point he'll show up again, but for now we need to check up on Brinnie and Cersei.
> 
> PS: So...I wrote the portion with Jaime and Selwyn two weeks ago while I was getting ready for  
> work. It's a lot of fun to type this all out with a mouth full of toothpaste!
> 
> Only after I wrote this, I checked on the time line for GOT and figured out (too late) that when  
> Jaime got back from Crakehall he was 15. Based on that fact, Brienne would have been only  
> one years old at the time; the actions I described in the book where when she was four years  
> old. 
> 
> So, with that and the fact that Tommen should actually be six years old instead of eight,  
> and compounding that fact with the fact that Jaime was apparently eight years old when his  
> mother died...so given all my goofs with time, at this point all I can do is shrug my shoulders   
> and go, "Meh...fuck it."
> 
> I'm so tired...I need to go to bed. : )


	9. Cat's Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei is greeted by 'the younger brother;' Pod prepares for his journey; Brienne's head grows heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I love this fandom? Let me count the ways... : )
> 
> I feel like the luckiest person in the world right now; and it's more than just the counts  
> for this fic, or the kudos or the comments...it's deeper than that:  
> It's because you're willing to take a chance and you've offered up your trust to me.
> 
> To everyone reading, supporting or commenting, I wish I could see your faces just to  
> smile and say thank you personally. When you write, the author has this expectation  
> to articulate how it is to feel about certain things. The support you have all given me...  
> there are no words. : ) Now if you'll excuse me, I'm not crying...there's just a Disney  
> movie in my eye.

 

The title for this chapter is brought to you by the letters "J" and "B" the number "9."  It's also brought to you in part by Pablo Neruda.  You can him [here](http://allpoetry.com/Cat's-Dream) if you're interested.  :  ) 

 

\-----------------------------------------------

The Grey Tower:

 

 

Hand in hand, the little king clutched tight to his father's as they began their journey up the steep and twisting path of the lonely Grey Tower.

Frozen winds sliced through every arrowslit on the walls; the bright flame of a hundred torches shivered at the presence of a piercing draft; Jaime had requested for every torch to be lit within the tower to assure his Grace would not suffer an accident from his steep climb.

King Tommen was well dressed and handsome in his Baratheon green velvet doublet; two great, crowned stags, stitched in gold thread, pranced upon each side of his small chest.  Placed upon his little shoulders was a sizeable bear fur cloak to keep him warm; when Jaime first saw his Grace that morning, he greeted his son with a genuine, lopsided smile. The boy king looked precious, resembling more like a chubby little bear cub than a young king.  His face seemed far too anxious for Jaime's liking; in hopes to lighten his son's mood, Jaime decided to gently tease his Grace.

“Your Grace. Do you know why bears wear such hairy coats?"  

Befuddled, Tommen shook his head 'no.'

" _Fur_ protection."

Tommen looked up at his father with a small look of confusion before a smile bloomed across his pale face. Feeling somewhat accomplished for easing some of his anxieties, Jaime wrapped his new cloak tighter around his shoulders before offering up the king his golden hand. Tommen looked up at his uncle and smiled; without blinking, he ignored the hand made of Lannister gold and reached for the one made of flesh and blood instead. Moved by this seemingly trivial choice, Jaime smiled before he squeezed Tommen's hand with silent gratitude.

The heavy bear fur cloak may have kept his Grace warm, but it did slow down his narrow climb considerably. Hearing his breathing grow more labored, Jaime made concessions to the little king, allowing for him to stop and take a moments rest every once and a while; he provided his Grace to catch his breath before they continued onward.  Jaime assured his king that each break was only for his own benefit, rather than for Tommen's; as his breathing would slow Jaime assured his Grace that he had only wanted to stop to see the view from the arrowslits, sharing varied stories about the Red Keep while he waited.  Slowly, Tommen would initiate the return to their ascent with only a timid command; each step closer made Jaime feel a hollow sickness fill slowly inside his chest.

_Perhaps Tommen feels the same as I do... maybe that's why we're climbing so slow._

Far too quickly, the climb soon ended. Outside the great oaken door, a septon nodded at his grace before taking a set of heavy, iron keys to unlock the cell door behind him. Jaime could feel Tommen's little fingers clasp tight in Jaime's hand once the iron bolt started to unlatch. The regent could not tell if his Grace did so out of fear, or as a comfort to Jaime's own trepidation.

_Either way, the lad is smarter than we give him credit for._

The heavy groan of labored hinges filled the tower; once the sound began to fade, a dense silence soon followed. A high whistle of winter winds could be heard, filling the tower with a haunted sound; it harkened back to an old myth of ancient souls of the damned, wailing and pleading for their innocence. Tommen was held tight; Jaime held tighter.

"Tommen?"  

Jaime couldn't see his king's face, but he felt his little body go rigid like a marble pillar at the sound of her voice. Glancing into the tower room cell, Jaime's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and soon saw what Tommen saw.

Former queen regent Cersei Baratheon graced her cell room with a decorous air, sprawled out like a lean cat against plush, silk cushions that were piled high around the wavering light of the fireplace. Her proud head, shorn clean from its mane, was held up high; her shoulders were straight and her chest swelled with breathy relief; Jaime instinctively felt his gaze linger over her proud breasts with unexpectedly arousing memories.  She was pale, strung out and bleached of color and clearly starved for fresh air. Her eyes were still a flashing brilliant green; they may have been lacking a certain charm that Jaime once knew, but they were hers all the same.  A warm smile coiled on her lavish lips and Jaime could remember spending hours losing himself into the moist folds of that very generous, very loving mouth.  Holding back an instant shudder, Jaime looked down at his son to follow his reaction.

"Come to your mother, sweetling!"  

_She will never take a step forward..._

Jaime watched his son hesitate for only a heartbeat before he willingly stepped into the lion cage; the regent lingered only for a moment in the hall before he stepped forward into the darkened cage as well.

"Sister."  

Cersei's delight of her son was soon marred by the sound of her brother's unadorned voice filling the room.  Her bright green eyes, filled with mirth, soon turned cold with a frost that would rival any winter storm. With hurt eyes darting over her brother's placid face, Cersei searched him for a note of remorse; sadly, she found none.

In denial over Jaime’s aloof presence, Cersei kept her mummer’s smile plastered across her gaunt face; slowly, her gaze returned to the top of her son's golden head as she blinked her glazed eyes, stunned with a daze. With her son’s head burrowed deep into the crook of her shoulder, Cersei could feel Tommen squeeze her ribs fiercely. Relieved to know the touch of a warm and comforting embrace, Cersei kissed the top of Tommen's sweet curls several times over with her eyes screwed shut, all the while denying Jaime’s heartless presence.

On and on she kissed Tommen's head with fierce love; tighter still, Tommen held on to his mother, snug at her side like a lost little bear. Moments passed, Cersei began to feel her breath grow thin; eventually she opened her eyes, wide with surprise before she tried to extract herself from her son.

"Tommen...my sweet."  

Her son would not listen. Her breathing started to turn shallow as her lush mouth started to gape open with a slight panic.  Still, her son would not listen.  Beginning to gasp, Cersei started to plead.

"My little cub... _please_."

Slowly…slowly, Tommen finally let go of his gasping mother; the tracks of long tears stained his pink, little round cheeks. Watching her finally catch her breath, Jaime noticed that his sister had the curious look of some strange, fading terror in her wide green eyes. Slowly, the former queen regent delivered another false smile on her face as her son began to look up; quickly, he wiped his eyes with fast, anxious hands. He had learned to become fearful of her wrath when she was his regent; she always disliked his tears once he became a king.

Jaime looked down upon both: mother and son, reunited at last, like a dream…and there he stood, the awkward shadow of the silent, looming father; always watching, never allowed to be embraced.

With a dull pang of bitterness, Jaime considered his broken sister and his weeping son with fresh, tired eyes.  

_This could have been ours; we deserved to have this. It should have been ours: family. And yet, you never loved me. You only loved the idea of me..._

Wiping her son's tears from beneath his trembling chin, Cersei kept her focus locked squarely on Tommen as her voice dropped to a cloying, trembling whisper. "Have you come to release me, my sweet?"  She held Tommen's little fists into both of her hands with long, delicate fingers; she quickly brought up his tiny knuckles to her mouth to bless them with more of her tender kisses. As the former queen anxiously waited for her son's reply, the silence loomed and it began to linger; and suddenly, the room started to seem much colder than it had been moments before.  

Waiting still, Cersei's face began to blanch from all of its sweetness while her son began to cry again; this time, his tears were much harder.  With thick lips, curled with weeping, Tommen slowly shook his head 'no' as his golden head began to drop down to his chest with shame.

_He's petrified of her._

"Tommen. Tommen. _Look at your mother_."

A trace of bile started to linger in the back of Jaime's throat. He was curious to see what was about to happen; in spite of his concern for his son, he forced himself to watch. Cersei was desperate, it was plain to see; in this moment he wanted to know...he had to see the measure of this woman...the woman he loved, in her most desperate hour.

Silent like the grave, Cersei's fingers began to whiten as her claws grew tight around Tommen's flush little hands.  Sobbing with hot tears, Tommen kept his curling blond head close to his chin, growling with low, heartbroken sobs. Impatient, tired, sick and cowed with pain, Cersei unclasped one hand and used her fingers to jerk the little kings blubbering head up to face her own.

" _Look at your mother!_  You're a _king_...a sniveling, whimpering _king_. What would your father say if he were still alive?"

Jaime finally had enough; disgusted by her judgement, her tone and her treatment of _their_ son, Jaime finally cut in with a cold, leaden voice.

" _That's enough._ "

Ignoring her brother, the man she loved and the father of her children, Cersei continued in spite of Jaime's frosty objection.  

"He would be _disgusted_..."

Lit within by something akin to rage, Jaime started to cut in between the two just as Tommen's weeping melted into a shallow, confused sob. Hurt was plainly evident in his eyes; Jamie could feel his heart break once he saw Tommen's face clearly. With watery eyes and a red, swollen cheeks, he looked up at his father with an exasperated look, lingering with devastation; Jaime saw his confused expression, and in that moment he could read the silent expression on his son's tear creased face: ' _What did I do wrong_?'

Grabbing a hold of the king, Jaime lifted his little bear into his arms before Cersei could do further damage.  Spinning away and tucking Tommen's golden head beneath his chin, Jaime escorted his son out of the lion cage, finally.  

From behind, Jaime could hear his sister peel into a hopeless mother's weeping while the sounds of her desperate apologies fell on deaf ears.

"Tommen, my _sweet_!  I'm so sorry..."

Outside in the hall of her cell, Jaime found a silent sister lingering close by the septon who kept guard of the cell door. Gesturing to the woman in grey, Jaime brushed his hands over Tommen's wet cheeks until his little breaths began to slow down.

"Shhh...shhh.  It's alright, it's over now. Tommen? It’s over."  Tommen slowly nodded at the regent's assurances.  "Are you alright?"

Instead of a nod, Tommen paused before he threw his little arms around Jaime's neck with a hard thump. Stunned by this turn of events, Jaime lingered a bit before he quickly buried his face into his son's neck; he kissed his cheek with gratitude as he spoke in a whisper.

"Little cub...it's alright."

Looking back up, Jaime found the silent sister had made her way closer to both of them. Feeling it would be safe, Jaime made a pointed look up at the woman while he spoke down towards his king with a very slow, deliberate voice.

"Your Grace. This kind woman is going to be sharing your company for a little while; I need to stay a moment longer to speak to your mother.  Would you be so kind as to escort this woman down the tower?  If it pleases you, it would be most chivalrous."

Tommen slowly nodding into Jaime's neck; gradually, his Grace pulled himself away from his uncle's arms with a solemn face.  Turning around, the little king saw a woman smile down upon Tommen before she made a brief curtsey. The faith did not feel compelled to extend royal courtesies inside the Grey Tower, but for this moment, the silent sister made an exception. Like a gentleman, King Tommen extended his little arm out to the waiting sister, and together they made a slow descent down the winding tower. Reluctantly, Jaime made his way back to his sister's cell.

Crouched on the floor, palms pressed together in front of her face as if she was lost in prayer, it was plain to see Cersei felt a terrible remorse for her actions. Offering up no sympathies, Jaime glared down at her with mild disgust.

"You dressed him in Baratheon colors."

Jaime sighed.

_Of all the things you could have said...and your first comment was about how he was dressed._

"He dressed himself. He _is_ a Baratheon; there is so much burgundy and gold in his wardrobe, it looks like a damned wine cellar from the Arbor. Your pride as a Lannister is duly noted, sweet sister, but he is only just half of one."

Aware that the septon guard lingered within ear shot, Cersei cleared her face of tears as she rolled her eyes with disdain. Determined, Jaime continued.

"I'm sorry to hear of your illness."  Cersei awkwardly adjusted herself against the nest of silken pillows beneath her as she gave considerable poise for her wounded foot. The smell of rot still lingered.  "How is your foot?"

Depleted of her energy, the former queen regent lifted the bottom hem of her brown, roughspun dress to reveal her bandaged foot. With sharp, tearing eyes, Cersei glared at Jaime before she directed her eyes down at her wounded foot. Taking this as a silent permission to see for himself, Jaime slowly kneeled to pull back the cotton bandages and revealed a horror for himself.

The large toe had to be amputated entirely, though Cersei still refused to give up on saving the rest of her foot. Through weeping yellow stains and streaks of dead blood, Jaime slowly peeled away a large swath of silk bandage to reveal a sizable hole of raw flesh, packed in tight with squirming, feasting white maggots. Revolted, Jaime censored his features as he could faintly see the thin, yellow bones within the rotted hole of her foot.  They were the bones in her feet that led to her toes; toes that were now raw, swollen, bleeding and covered in black spots of shriveled skin. Feeling sick to his stomach, Jaime lowered the silk bandage back onto the bed of maggots inside his sister's foot with an ashen face.

"Qyburn said he may have to remove it."

The sound of her defeated, weeping voice did something to Jaime.

 _Pity?  Perhaps empathy_.

"He should have removed it by now, Cersei...the maggots...they cannot keep up with the rot; you'll likely--"

" _I know!_ "   

Silence lingered; he wrapped the bandages back around her tender foot with a slow, strange delicacy. Memories of his time with the Bloody Mummers filled his distant eyes; memories being tied to Brienne, face to face and mounted upon a swaying horse; him with a rotted hand dangling from his neck; her blue eyes had watched him so carefully; how warm she had felt then.

Unbeknownst to him, a faint smile started to grow on Jaime’s lips; he privately considered his sister’s short hair and his thoughts soon registered an invasive absurdity.

_Brienne now has longer hair than Cersei._

"You've poisoned my son against me."

Looking back up at his sister, Jaime seemed confused before he read Cersei's bitter face.  A slow outrage began to build inside him; he barely smothered it with his bound contempt. With a low, hard voice, Jaime slowly countered back her acrid claim.

"You. _You_ only poisoned Tommen against _yourself_ ; you and you alone: Your words, your actions, your inability to listen to him and your inability to respect him for the king he is. Instead you treated him like a fly that swarmed too close to your face. This is your doing and yours alone; you will _not_ lie this down at my feet."

Her face, licked with a bitter expression, coiled up in a fresh revulsion as she studied her brother with seemingly new eyes.  Raising herself up slowly from her nest of pillows, Cersei leaned her whole weight on the stone wall behind her as she struggled to gain her balance again. Standing up as well, Jaime felt no compulsion to help Cersei up, Jaime looked down at his boots with twisted sympathy; he understood how painful the pride could be…to be a crippled and to find only the gaze of blatant pity from your family.

"And that's what you believe?  That I'm a bad mother?   _Everything I do, I do to ensure my son's protection and safety."_ Determined, Cersei hobbled one step closer to her brother with a venomous whisper in her voice.

"What have _you_ ever done... _brother_?"

Lifting his eyes up towards her, Jaime made his face go blank and his turned eyes dull before he truly looked back at her.  He saw pain, humiliation and fear, all in her eyes.  In that moment he knew their end would soon come, whether she prevailed from her trial by combat or not.  With a firm, level voice, Jaime replied.

"I'm here to protect my nephew's crown. I am here to serve his Grace.”  He watched Cersei’s eyes roll with disgust as a snort of bitter humor crossed her features.  Holding back his offences, Jaime continued.  “ _You are a loving mother, Cersei_...no one will deny you that.  But you're not a fit ruler, you don't have any patience and you refuse to trust anyone.  How can you lead your son to one day rule if he is only taught to be fearful and distrusting of everyone and everything in his life?"

"And you're fit to rule?”                

"I'm here to serve his Grace and protect his crown."

"Protect. _You_."  Jaime watched his sister's eyes narrow at him with a cruel humor.  "How many kings have died since you've been a member of the Kingsguard?  Hmm? Joff?  Robert...that _pig_. Aerys?  How can _you_ protect a crowned head? All you've ever been good for was shoving a sword into a mad king's back.”

Incensed, Jaime could feel his mouth twist in fury before he enforced his own words with a low, smoldering threat.

"Watch it... _watch it!_ "

"I’m not fit to rule... _because I lack a cock, no doubt!_ I'm certain, had I been born like that _grotesque bitch_ from Tarth, that hideous _freak_ of a woman--"

Quick like a viper, Jaime shot his hand made of flesh around the thin, pale throat of his sister as he slammed her body against the stone wall behind her in a passionate, thundering force. Jaime could hear a dull _thunk_ as the back of her skull hit the wall just as her eyes slammed shut in fear. His fingers itched to bury themselves deeper into the long, soft throat of his sister, to squeeze and tighten until her mouth turned slack; he longed to dip open mouth kisses over the pale expanse of her neck, her mouth and her chest, raining familiar caresses upon her soft skin and all over her yielding body.

One craving soon won out over the other.

Jaime felt his thick thumb begin to press down at the center of her throat, deep into the soft valley of skin between her collarbones with a strange exhale from his lungs, feeling a new sense of his relief.

A series of thick, wet clucks and gasping pants soon bubbled out of Cersei's gaping mouth.  Thick cords in her throat began to pull tight against the red skin of her neck; wormy veins, blue and violet, began to pulse and dance wildly around Jaime's trembling, sinking fingers.

Disgusted with her, disgusted by her ripe beauty and the full mouth she crafted for lies, he felt himself squeeze tighter.   Even though his face was screwed tight with anger, even though his teeth clenched with a fresh rage, Jaime began to feel sick once he saw the life in Cersei’s eyes slowly lower into unconsciousness.

Disgusted by himself, disgusted by his once blind love and all of the sacrifices he had made, silently in her name, he felt himself let his fingers grow limp around her twilight darkened neck.

Dropping to the floor like a corpse on a battlefield, Jaime watched Cersei as she curled herself onto the floor like a wounded animal as she gagged and gasped, coughed and wheezed.  Life began to return to her body once the heavy breaths started to slow. The coughing never ceased as Jaime carefully lowered himself to the floor, balancing his weight on his toes while he hunched over his sister’s body as she fought for air.  Looking down upon her, he somehow felt a strong compulsion to cry.  

 _She lives her entire life, lost in some absurd dream.._.

Seeing her eyes, how they burned with rage, Jaime no longer felt an obligation to weep.  With a chilling whisper, Jaime leaned close to Cersei’s ear and spoke to her, very carefully.

"Blood or no blood: Had you been born a man I would have broken your damned neck. _Never speak of Brienne again_. The next time you do I _swear_..."  He slammed his eyes down as he made his holy vow.  "I swear a solemn oath that I will choke the life out of you with my hand of gold...and _that_ hand will not stop until I know you are dead."

Panting, gasping, windless from wrath, Cersei began to weep.  With her lower jaw jutted out with indignation, his sister never bothered to conceal her tears before she locked her blazing eyes onto her brother.

“ _Get.  Out._ ”

Slowly, Jaime rose up to his feet with a cold grace, all the while his eyes stayed locked on her.  With a deep exhale, he began to slowly turn his head and walked out of the cell door without a glance backwards.  A heavy slam was heard, soon followed by the _clack_ and shift of iron locks; with a final, lonely click, the heavy oak door was closed again.

In her room, the fire had finally guttered out.  In the darkness, Cersei wept like a child.

 

 

\---------------------------

Three days later:

 

 

Fresh straw littered the floor of the stables, leaving a thick trail of pale gold carpeting for the soldiers to cross paths on. Men of Tarth, armed in azure blue plate with gold, crescent moons and sunbursts, its simple elegance made them all look like heroes from a romantic ballad; the thin strips of rose pink enamel lined each chest plate, making the golden blazon on each soldier stand out with a beautiful contrast of both color and mood.

The Lannister soldiers, however, were not so embellished when compared to the handsome presence of the men of Tarth. Still concerned for any factions of the Brotherhood who might still linger in the Riverlands, Jaime had ordered his men to dress in neutral grey and silver plate and white, just to provide more of a neutral presence on their journey towards the north.

_Lions disguised as direwolves..._

Podrick Payne stood in the center of the royal stables, slightly overwhelmed by everything that was happening around him; he watched tall, imposing men who strolled with purpose and determination tower over him; men who have seen war and combat, those who had won tourneys and melees...and now these same men were now about to be led by the commands of a squire from a lowly house.

Jaime watched Pod from a distance and felt some sympathy for the boy; it was no doubt in his mind a wondrous thing to be the leader of such a party, two hundred strong; it may have left the boy feel inadequate though with this great and rewarding new position. Making his decision to offer up a kind word to Pod, Jaime crossed the length of the stables to have a few words.

"Are you nervous?"

The young squire looked up at Jaime as if he were about to tell him that everything had been just a joke: Him, his command of the forces, his hopes, everything. One big, fat joke.

"A little, Ser."

"That's good; a wise man is familiar with his doubts, the fool never greets his.  A bit of advice?"  Pod nodded his head as Jaime felt a bit of pride for the boy. "Never believe for a moment that you have nothing to offer as a leader.  You must have the strength of your own convictions.  You were given this role because you have something these men don't have:  Experience. You've been through the Riverlands with Brienne; you've seen what she's seen, you know where to look and you know what she knew. Morale is a fragile thing for any search party; these men will be looking to you for your experience and information."

The young lad nodded his head with a gradual acceptance. Any other person who would have said the same things would have left Pod with doubt; perhaps leaving him with the sense of a patronizing tone as well. Not with Jaime though; the way Podrick saw it, if Brienne trusted Jaime, then he knew he could trust him.

With a small sigh Jaime remembered his time as a squire for Lord Sumner Crakehall. The doubt and nervousness, the anxiety to please and the constant hope to one day be recognized for his small contributions.

There were of course other things that Jaime had to experience in his years as a squire. He remembered the first time he saw the aftershock of a battle; the carnage of war had been a terrifying one to witness:

He saw beautiful fields that once flourished with healthy crops and wide swaths of wildflowers trampled into the mud as if their presence was an affront to decency; prosperous hamlets turned into fire scorched homesteads with the stink of butchered livestock rotting, lingering close by; the wailing, ghostly sounds of wounded men slowly dying all around him; he was horrified to see the sight of so many traumatized civilians as they began to wander about in a numb daze, envying their recently deceased family members.

The worst of course was to see the field of the dead after any battle. To see the bodies of men who crumpled and fell, scattered and tossed into piles like autumn leaves from a shedding tree.  No matter how old he got, the sight of it always made Jaime feel ill; he never fled the site of a battle without a sunken feeling in his chest.

By the time Jaime had seen the second aftermath of a battle as a squire, he forced himself to look upon the corpses of men as if they were the scattered remains of loyal hounds or well trained horses; all lovely creatures that somehow became expendable for the glory of a distant, unseen lord. To think of them as men who were once living and breathing had been too much of a concept for Jaime; that choice he made became his first of many ways he learned of going away inside himself, for the preservation of his own sanity.

Pod looked up at Jaime with a slow smile.  Green eyes, looking far off and distant with a thousand yard stare suddenly blinked heavy once he felt the young squire looking upon him.  

“When does your retinue depart from King’s Landing?”

Distant shouting of men preparing for a march filled the royal stable with some charged excitement.  Glancing over the others with a faint smile, Pod looked back at Jaime to answer his question.  

“At the first light of dawn, Ser.”

Nodding with satisfaction, Jaime smiled down at the young man and felt proud.  

“I promise to be there with Lord Selwyn then.”

With a wide grin, Pod thanked the new regent and slowly limped away to see to his duties.

 

 

\----------------------------------------

The Kings Road:

 

 

The sweet crunch of snow and ice under the pretty trot of her horse felt like a true comfort to Brienne.  

Too many days holed up inside of a cave started to make her feel like a silent sister rather than a healing warrior.  But it was inside that natal den where she began her new life; it was her earthly womb made up of weirwood roots and pink stones that shimmered under candlelight; the smell of moss and musty soil with the sounds of the ravens at sunset and the rush of a waterfall lulling her to sleep each night.  Though she was grateful to leave, she still felt a fresh awkwardness while she made her way into this new world; like a baby colt with gangly legs and shivering knees, Brienne carried on, knowing she would soon find her ground.  

The air was sharp with fresh snow as the cold scent stung her nostrils, but every breath still lingered in her with a sweet, silent joy. Though the party that surrounded her was bundled up in thick layers of boiled leather, wool and furs, Brienne herself was only modestly dressed in breeches and a heavy tunic with a leather doublet and a dark, grey cloak surrounding her form.  

Still concerned for her safety, Brienne tucked her head deeper into the hood of her cloak before tightening the reins on her horse again.  In her time since her death, her pale blonde hair grew longer; not much, but it now lingered past her shoulders, only barely.  The terrible bite on her cheek was healed now, a wide, jagged scar still remained however; the wound had healed with a wide, tight slash running down the length of her left cheek.  She never was a beauty, she knew that...the scar made no true difference, but its sight and its touch still made her wince.  

Without knowing, Brienne raised a gloved hand to her scarf bound throat once she cleared her voice in the dry winter air.  Her fingers fluttered over the portion of her neck that suffered the mortal blow that ended her life.  Intrusive memories of Jaime and her last moments alive burned a hole into her heart and chest.  Feeling her bright eyes fill with tears, Brienne inhaled the piercing air again before straightening her back, determined to ride on.  With a gentle kick of her heels, Brienne led her horse to a fine trot into the bright blue morning sky.  

A ways further down the Kings Road, Lady Brienne eventually caught up to Septon Meribald before slowing down her trot.  With a brief nod, both exchanged a silent ‘good morning’ before riding together in a heavy silence.  

The Maid of Tarth considered Septon Meribald in the bright glare of sunlight as it bounced off the fresh fields of snow surrounding the King's Road. It was a rare joy now to see such clear, blue skies in these shortened winter days; in several months’ time, the long night would begin, and so too would the frozen tears, the threat of famine...

With a dour face, Brienne remembered what Septon Meribald once said to her of broken men...how they should be both feared and pitied.  In her recollections, she felt brief flashes of both overwhelming anger and staggering fear of the Brotherhood without Banners. In other moments, moments such as this one, she found the strength to feel pity for the Brotherhood as she remembered Stoneheart's savage rule. With tearing eyes, Brienne recalled her last moments with Thoros of Myr and pondered.

_"A perfect knight..."_

With an unthinking glance behind her back, Brienne looked down upon the glaring white snow beneath her path:  The distorted shadows of two horses lingered beneath her and the septon, mirroring each step like the shaded outlines of starved, foreign beasts staggering within a dark nightmare; above Septon Meribald's horse was the mounted shadow of his long and hunched form, twisted and augmented in the shadowy echo of winter's sunlight.  From the dark shadow of Brienne's mount, she observed the light filled void of where her own shadow should have been. A shiver climbed over her hard shoulders...it was still a disturbing thing for her to witness.

_Daughter of fire...Bride of Ice..._

Blinking hard, Brienne shook her head in confusion before she returned her gaze back to the frozen road before her. Off to her side, she could see the septon glance at her with a modest shade of sympathy. Feeling uncomfortable with such a notion, the Maid started to bristle with a slight irritation before she made a firm eye contact with her companion.

"My apologies, Lady Brienne; I don't mean to make you feel like a specimen."

_You mean to say 'a freak.'_

Nodding in acceptance, she plodded on next to the septon; for a mile, the _clip clop_ sounds of hooves dancing upon the icy ruts in the road accompanied the silent pair. Up ahead, she could see the remaining six men dressed in brown cloaks; they were the men who arrived with Septon Meribald the day Thoros died.

From her silence, a deep seeded question began to flower from her mind. "How did you learn of the Second Brotherhood?"

Amongst those who had escaped Stoneheart's bloody rule, some began to casually refer to themselves as the 'second brotherhood' with an informal tone.  Eventually, Brienne began to use the phrase as well; as a result, it soon became the name all members started to formally use. Some members even made the joke that they should call themselves 'The Little Brothers' instead.

"I traveled. I've heard the confessions of the common folk; I offered up blessings, I performed marriages and blessed burials; I anointed newborn children in the light of the Seven. I spent time with broken men...some broken men who now call themselves the Second Brotherhood."

Nodding slowly, Brienne recalled that the septon made a well-trod journey across the Riverlands that had taken a year to complete. That was then when the septon traveled by foot with no shoes and a sweet, vocal dog at his side.

“When you were taken at the inn...you fought so valiantly; you were so brave.  I couldn’t help but to think that in those terrible moments, I believed that the Warrior had indeed blessed you.  After you were gone, along with the boy and Ser Hyle, I spent time at the inn; the children there were in need.  I thought if I could help them, be of some use, perhaps I could find out where you had been taken to.”

Silence lingered.  The sound of hooves clopping on patches of ice filled the air.  

“Once word of your death made its way across the Riverlands, I was mournful. I prayed for your soul; the death of a maiden warrior is a woeful loss to a world that is already so broken.”

_I know; I heard your prayers._

“Soon after, I returned to my journey across the Riverlands again.  Eventually, I ran into another septon, a member of the Quite Isles.  He had informed me that the High Sparrow was in need of a champion, to represent the Faith in a trial by combat; the septon had spoken of an unnatural creature who was eight feet tall and never slept...it was said he would be the Queen’s champion.

“Days later, I made my return to your cave...the cave of the Second Brotherhood.  There were many there who shared the faith of the Seven; I heard confessions and the like.  Most there were of the faith of R’hllor...a god of fire.  I’m not one to judge...  But to my astonishment, I saw you there...in the cave.  Briefly, but all the same, I knew it was you.”

Brienne felt grave as she followed the septon’s words.  She had no idea that he was once present at the cave.  Engrossed, she listened still.

“Eventually, I came across Thoros of Myr.  In private, I asked of you.  He told me, rather reluctantly, that what was said was true: Indeed, you had died; and yes, you were now among the living.  I...I’ve seen many things, and I’ve heard many stories, Lady Brienne.  None were as fantastic or as terrifying as what Thoros had shown to me in those flames that day...it was then I knew we had found our match to the abomination that will champion queen regent Cersei.”     

Breathless, Brienne filled the silence that lingered in Meribald story.  

“The Faith of the Seven has rejected Lord Stannis as their rightful heir to the throne because he worships the Lord of Light.  It’s said that...the accusation...of S-S-Ser Jaime and the queen regent…”

“Aye,” Thoros filled in Brienne’s struggling words, “the charge of incest has been dropped against the Crown; that scandalous letter Stannis had sent throughout Westeros is now dismissed; a man who worships a fire demon will say anything to win a throne.”

Grateful, Brienne continued.  “The High Sparrow rejects those who worship the Lord of Light—and yet... _I_ , restored to life by a Red Priest, _I_ am to defend the Faith in a trial by combat?”

The septon smiled with a strange wince.  He continued with a touch of irony in his voice.  

“Politics makes for strange bedfellows, my lady.  Wealthy and powerful houses of the south were almost defeated by powerful yet modest houses of the north.  The War of the Five Kings saw to the coupling of strange bedfellows: Bitter enemies soon become allies; a once living and peaceful mother aligned herself with the Brotherhood without Banners to avenge her dead...and once, an arrogant and prideful Kingslayer was under the mercy...and then protection, of a warrior maiden from Tarth.”

Brienne blushed at such exact words.

“You are wanted, Lady Brienne.  You are a soul who is fit to lead and rule.”

Closing her eyes against such impossible conclusions, the Maid of Tarth shook her head.

“I only want to serve...to serve a lord that I believe in.”

Desperate to be understood, Meribald reached his hand out to Brienne with a firm hand and stilled her arm.  “And it _should be you_. Those who grapple for power are those who are fit _only to serve_. Those who serve with honor are the ones who must lead in power.”

The air deflated from Brienne’s chest.  Solemn, with a dire voice, Septon Meribald continued once the Maid’s eyes were locked onto his.

“Those who wish not to rule _should rule_ ; heavy is the head that wears the crown: To rule is to serve, not to be served.”

With a thunderbolt of understanding, Brienne shifted uncomfortably in her saddle as the septon’s words lingered in her head.  As they rode on in silence, the Maid slowly lowered her head with an unseeing weight rested heavy upon it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime did a 'Dad Joke.' My Jaime would sooo do a 'Dad Joke.'  
> Literally, I Googled, "dad jokes bear" and the third hit was a Twitter page for an account  
> called @baddadjokes and that groaner came up! (sigh..oh Jaime) 
> 
> At first, I was terrified of the Jaime & Cersei showdown; but somehow, by some miracle,  
> the dialogue just somehow came knocking out of my fingers. If it doesn't feel organic  
> to you, please feel free to give me a shout out...I'm completely cool with constructive criticism! 
> 
> Anyone feel like taking a trip to Pennytree?


	10. In You The Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A regent chooses to lie; a former queen regent is unbound; a warrior returns to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to the amazing tamjlee for a few suggestions they made in the comments a while back! 
> 
> The feedback is incredibly guys; I'm so happy to read them all and to answer any questions you might have.  
> I remember when I started reading fanfic. I'll say it: It can be a really scary thing to leave a comment! I've  
> been there. I've lost count how many incredible stories I've read on AO3 these last seven months but  
> I was just too nervous, too anxious to leave a comment...it can totally be nerve wracking! : ) If you want to  
> comment but just don't feel comfortable in doing so, I totally understand! Just the fact people are reading this  
> is enough to put a song in my heart. I'm so...touched. I'm very, very lucky to be part of this community.

The title from this chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda; you can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/In-You-The-Earth) if you're interested.

 

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The Dragon Gate, King’s Landing:

 

Lord Selwyn was quietly pleased to see that Jaime had worn his gift with such honor.  

The new cloak Jaime wore was made of heavy black wool, woven thick to endure the bitter years of a harsh winter.  Draped across the shoulders of his beautiful present was a regal, buttery soft sea lion pelt; the fur was a rich, silvery-grey with a gold swath running through it.  

The cloak was a generous present, given with gratitude for the regent’s hospitality; the lush pelt that surrounded Jaime’s neck had once been a breed of sea lion that’d been gone for hundreds of years. The animal was hunted into extinction because of the wide, gold like fur that lined down the center of its silvery back. The cloak was made by the order of Selwyn of Tarth many years ago; it was to be a gift to his only son, Galladon, for his eighteenth nameday.  Following his unexpected death, the Lord of Tarth buried his heir and any dreams he had hoped to share with his boy; along with it, the fine cloak which was buried deep into storage, along with every broken hope the father had once nursed.    

Both Jaime and Selwyn stood outside of the Dragon Gate on horseback, patiently watching two hundred men of both House Lannister and Tarth as they marched their way up the King’s Road in search of a maid of three and ten.  The snows had finally ceased and at dawn’s light, Podrick Payne, along with his distant cousin, Ser Ilyn Payne, marched off into the blustering, snowy north together.

It was at Jaime’s behest that encouraged Ser Ilyn to follow his blood, telling him how fortunate he was to still have family that was both present and living.  With a straight face, Jaime looked at Ilyn and assured him that both he and Pod would have “no doubt, much to talk about.”  With a wide smile and a wet clack in his throat, Ser Ilyn agreed with his regent and followed his distant cousin to the frozen north.

Surrounded by Lannister guards and scores of Goldcloaks, Jaime had made good on his promise to keep them safe as they watched the retinue makes its slow way down the foggy winter road.  Lord Selwyn’s horse was close to Jaime’s as both men had felt comfortable with one another to share casual words and observances with ease.  

Watching the men ride off, Jaime failed to notice how distracted, how anxious Lord Selwyn seemed all morning.  With familiar tones, both men spoke on a number of topics; from the weather of the Riverlands, the coming winter for King's Landing; they even shared praise and admiration for Podrick Payne's fortitude.

With a grim face, Lord Selwyn started to grow quiet; giving up on finding a way to broach such a delicate subject, Selwyn spoke up with trepidation, much to Jaime’s surprise.

"Please forgive me, Ser Jaime; I-I feel monstrous for doing this to you. But as her father...I'm compelled.  I need to know..."  The unfinished thought had carried the scent of unease and torment; it lingered in front of Jaime like a dark haze of smoke that unfurled from some distant, unseen wildfire.

A dozen questions Selwyn might have asked furiously tumbled through Jaime's anxious mind. Most of the questions he entertained were uncomfortable ones, concerning Brienne's virtue and honor. With a small, timid voice, Selwyn began to squint his eyes at the regent with fear as he finally finished his reluctant thought.

"Did she suffer?"

Jaime had to fight every impulse within him to not flinch.  For decades, he had mastered the art of lying to everyone in his life, effortlessly concealing his forbidden love with his sister for as long as they had managed: To his father, to King Robert, to his aunts and uncles, even to his own children. But to this man, this chivalrous and fine lord, Jaime had no strength to conceal or deceive him in any way. But with a steady eye, Jaime clenched his jaw with determination and swallowed hard. He suddenly felt the weight of Oathkeeper bound to his side like a beautiful burden.

"No, my Lord; your daughter...her passing was thankfully a quick one.  She fought valiantly...she was very brave."  Jaime felt his throat tighten.  "We can thank the Seven that the Warrior blessed her with a clean and honorable death."

_A terrible lie…but also a kindness._

Unbeknownst to him, the Evenstar let out a ragged breath he hadn't known he'd been holding on to. With fresh tears filling his watery blue eyes, Selwyn nodded his flushed face with slight enthusiasm as he bit his lower lip with a grim acceptance of Jaime's word.

It was possible that Lord Selwyn knew that Jaime had been lying to him, but in that moment Selwyn truly didn't care; he chose to believe with his whole heart that Jaime's word was the only truth that had been conceivable. Sensing that the Lord of Tarth had finally made some peace with this news of Brienne’s death, Jaime felt he owed his debt for lying; he chose to repay Selwyn with a credit for truth.

"My Lord, I feel the need to tell you…in our time together, your daughter was never…”  Jaime sighed.  “I had never made— _we did not_ —I d-did not..."  The words were much harder to share than Jaime had expected.  They were both grown men, but to speak of her in such an indelicate way, in front of her father, made him feel as if though he was unworthy to even say Brienne’s name.

Closing his eyes with a slow inhale, Jaime could feel certain words linger on his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to say any of them. Watching him carefully, Selwyn started to read between the lines, understanding what his intentions were.  With decorum, Lord Selwyn raised a forgiving palm up to Jaime; he knew how hard these words must have been for him.  Waving off any further discomfort, the Evenstar nodded his head with a kind and knowing look.

"Jaime.  I understand."

Leaning close to the regent on his horse, the Evenstar made a quick glance over his shoulder, meaning to confide in Jaime with discretion.  

"The septon who performed her burial blessing had sent me a raven, offering me his condolences."  Taking a moment to look behind him again, Selwyn continued with a low, assuring voice.  "He had also informed me that she had been granted the blessing of the Maid _._ "  With faint surprise, Jaime made a small nod of his head with a sigh of relief.  With a vague smile crooked to one cheek, Brienne's father followed Jaime's face with a newfound appreciation and a growing respect.

"I know you were nothing but honorable with my daughter."

Those words had cut Jaime deep and to the marrow.

With self-disgust, he remembered all of the times he insulted Brienne to her face; calling her cruel names, making terrible jokes at her expense; jokes about her height, how big her body looked or how masculine she always seemed.  He had taken great joy in mocking her for all of her unyielding virtues and her impossible vows.  He loved making wry comments to her about how slow she was, how stupid, how she was stubborn like a dimwitted ox. He constantly made vicious comments about how tedious her silences always were; he would later make comments about how boring, how naive she had always sounded.

Jaime remembered how he would taunt Brienne's ridiculously maiden ways by openly urinating in front of her with a daring smile and a salacious wag of his eyebrows; the lure of an indecent challenge writ all across his face.  He would continuously prod her about her sexual history, or rather, her lack of sexual history.  Sarcastically offering himself up to her, promising to make her feel like a real woman.  Him, walking as naked as his name day without a stitch of decency, brazenly climbing into a bathtub without giving any cares for her dignity or shame.

And other times, inside the darkest corners of Jaime’s most private thoughts, he would sometimes have less than honorable feelings about the Maid.  From the moment he laid eyes on her he would obsess over her strong legs, her sturdy arms and her gallant stride.  

He would speculate to himself on how she would look in dresses, also out of dresses; imagined her naked, vulnerable...wanting.  He’d always written it off only as desperate thoughts any man could have when they’ve been away from a ‘real’ woman for too long.  But even after his return to King’s Landing, even with Cersei within arm’s reach, those ridiculous thoughts would still return.  

He’d constantly fixate on Brienne’s wide mouth; imagining her lips being so full, soft and pleading for his hungry kisses.  He used to laugh to himself whenever he’d entertain such ludicrous notions...but the idea would always persist in the trails of his fading amusement.  Thoughts of her in his arms, in a bathtub, her wet skin, her legs wrapped around his ceaseless body, her arms curled around his trembling shoulders, begging, gasping...  

_‘...nothing but honorable with my daughter.’_

“Thank you my Lord.”

Watching the soldiers slowly fade their way into the overcast scrim of the evergreen wild, Selwyn could feel Jaime’s eyes on him with awkward, halting glances.  Figuring the regent still had felt embarrassed, Selwyn glanced back at him with a neutral expression.

“Yes Jaime?”

With a gentle sigh in his chest, Jaime considered the Lord of Tarth with a childlike expression on his face. “Do…do you think she loved me?”

He had spoken hardly above a whisper, but Selwyn could hear enough to understand Jaime’s worry.  With a rutted brow, Lord Selwyn looked down at his horse and then back up at the regent with a shade of tragic irony.

“My daughter was many things...but she was never one to act out of impulse.  She was thoughtful with her words and her actions.  She became _very familiar_ with the sting of judgement and she often felt the bite of a cruel rejection.  My daughter knew pain…but she also knew love.  And if I may be so bold, she loved few men…and she trusted even fewer.”

Selwyn felt his words grow faint with the bitter memories of his daughter’s struggles.  

“She trusted you completely, Ser...I don’t know if you’ll ever understand how much you mean to me, because of that.”  Jaime felt his chest grow still with a choking eagerness.

“She loved you absolutely, Jaime.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------------

The Grey Tower:

 

The former queen regent had been relieved to finally strip away her rotted foot.  

It had seemed strange for her to be so grateful, but in the end, the lioness of the Rock could not abide the thought of losing her entire leg when her rancid foot had progressed beyond the repair of Qyburn’s dark arts.

Wrapped in heavy wool blankets upon a rickety bed, Cersei curled her wounded body off to one side to relieve the aches she had felt on her right leg.  The foot had to be removed once the putrefaction became too strong for Cersei to tolerate; the disgraced maester warned her that the corruption would only progress up her entire leg within a day or two.  The maggots had done an ‘admirable job,’ or so said Qyburn, but their eager feasting was not fast enough for the larvae to clean all of the rot in her foot.  Once the former queen had saw how the raw, tattered hole on her foot began to widen, revealing to her all of the thin, yellow bones of her once beautiful foot, she wept in devastation as she finally accepted what had to be done.  

Every effort had become a burden to her; simple, mindless things such as sitting up and shifting her weight felt too much like an exhausting struggle.  Though she was able to manage the pain with a generous supply of milk of the poppy, Cersei knew other pains that a maester could never heal.

Violet and black bruises encircled the former queen’s throat like an amethyst choker; eating had become a chore, drinking felt nearly impossible and to speak felt like a torture that wounded more her pride more than her throat.  Thoughts of Jaime, her beloved Jaime, so handsome yet so unfamiliar, it began to plague her mind. He had greeted her with a blank face along with a ridiculous new cloak made with a grotesque sea lion pelt wrapped around his shoulders. Cersei eventually arrived at the conclusion that she was no longer in the presence of the man she loved; she was now looking upon the face of a total stranger...      

He _was_ a stranger to her now; he never answered her message, even when she pleaded for him, begged even to have him champion for her against the faith.  

_“I love you, I love you, I love you. Come at once.”_

Those words were not enough.  Now Jaime had poisoned her only boy against her; he conspired with the septons and the silent sisters to ensure her misery, he manipulated his way in Tommen’s heart to steal her regency… With a cold flash of frightful deduction, Cersei believed that their little brother, Tyrion, had wormed his way back into King’s Landing; it was obvious they were both plotting against her to take over Tommen’s throne.

Though she had been pleased to be rid of the insidious gangrene, another displeasing presence still hovered close to her. With a faint knock, Cersei carefully rolled over on her bed to find Qyburn had started to slime his way into her lonely cell with an expression on his face much like that of a starving eel.  

Without her leave, the former maester took a seat on the former queen’s bed with a familiar air. With careful hands, tender like Jaime's, Qyburn began to unwrap the bloodied stump at the end of her slender ankle as if he were a child slowly opening a present of his nameday.  Revolted, the former queen watched his joy with visible upset.

The night before, Cersei had her leg strapped to an examination table under the light of a hundred candles as Qyburn poured over her infested wounds with disturbing enthusiasm. Only under a great dose of milk of the poppy, Cersei clenched her eyes shut with horror as she could feel faint incisions being made into the swollen flesh beneath her ankle. With pitiful moans and groans, the former queen could still feel numb picks and slices into her foot; with only a small word of warning, Qyburn braced the queen as he administered of one final tug before her foot was finally removed.

Baring down onto the table with shaking hands, Cersei heard a sick, wet crunch with a series of twisting pops from severed bone and cracked tendons.  With terror she watched flicks and sprays of blood go everywhere.  Qyburn smiled down at her bleeding stub and her severed foot just with as much pride as if he had just delivered his first born son. Never before had Cersei screamed so hard in her entire life. Even after the pa she suffered from the birthing bed, never once did she imagine such a pain could ever exist for anyone.  

With small dabs of ointment, Qyburn now beamed down at the sutured flap of skin covering her healing stump with pride.  Cersei felt like she wanted to throw up; Qyburn spoke to his Grace with a casual, breezy tone.

"I have just spoken to the septon in charge of your... _stay,_ here at the Grey Tower, your Grace."  Cersei nodded impatiently. "His Grace, King Tommen has consented to offer you the right to make a _reasonable request_ that he could grant...in the event your champion may fail you during the trial by combat."

"Will he?”  Qyburn had assumed she was speaking of her son’s offering.  “Will he fail?"  He was not surprised to realize she had only been talking about saving herself instead.

Insulted by her lack of faith in his powers, Qyburn looked down at his queen with a flash of insolence before he smiled back at her.  "Your Grace must recall...Ser Robert Strong rides for King's Landing in a few days. _He will not fail you_."

A flicker of a smile graced Cersei's lips before she looked down at her bloody stump again. Moments passed, the lioness felt a fresh resolve take root in her; it was a decision she had made the moment her foot was torn clean from her body.  With a bitter smile, Cersei's green eyes burned clear as she gritted her teeth to stifle the pain.

"Tell his Grace I am moved by his generous offering.  Tell him I would only make the humble request for a flagon of wine and the company of my brother before the trial commences."

Surprised his queen would want to see Jaime so soon, especially after what he had done to her, Cersei continued in spite of Qyburn’s steady look of concern on his face.  She offered up to him a rather sweet, convincing smile at him.

"And as for you, Qyburn; I have a humble request to make to you as well..."  

Intrigued, the former maester rested his queen's ruined leg on his lap; with a possessive hand he began to stroke her soft ankle while he listened to her words, carefully.  Cersei tried hard not to feel the ill, tightening coil of repulsion; she held back a heavy shudder as she continued, trying hard to ignore the disgraced maester’s presumptuous touch.  

 

\----------------------------------

The Dragon's Gate, King's Landing:

 

Brienne followed the tired pace of Septon Meribald’s horse while he had led the way through the streets of King’s Landing; seven men of the Faith, all dressed in brown robes, rode in exhaustion towards the Sept of Baelor with the Maid in tow. The crisp sound of clipping hooves danced and echoed across the icy cobblestones that would soon lead them to the Street of Sisters.

Sunken deep into the folds of her hooded grey cloak, Brienne of Tarth peered at the people of King’s Landing; nobility and common folk, prosperous merchants and struggling farmers. From her hunched position on her tired horse; she watched them mill about and soon felt envious of them; they were all blissfully unaware of what horrors may soon follow should she fail and Cersei’s champion be declared the winner.  

Septon Meribald led the trail through the city gates; only he and the six other brothers of the Faith had to accompany Brienne into the city. Most of the of the other members of the Second Brotherhood straggled into King's Landing, ten to fifteen at a time, all arriving from different gates on separate days just to avoid any suspicion from the city watch.  

Many people in Westeros had already started to flock to the city; the spectacle of having a trial by combat always garnered interest among the common folk. As for a trial for a crowned head, one who was considered by many to be detestable, perverse and vicious, many flocked to the city in droves with the hopes to see the Dowager Queen Cersei lose her head should the Faith's champions stand victorious.

All around in the city people started to speak with passion and enthusiasm, speculating who would serve as the Faith's protector. Some swore that Ser Loras Tyrell was never actually wounded from his siege of Dragonstone; that he only lingered there until he was allowed his chance to fight as the Faith’s warrior.  Others assumed Lancel Lannister, the newly devout, highly fanatical servant to the High Sparrow would be the one chosen to fight.  

It was close to midnight before the party had arrived at the Great Sept of Baelor. Wishing to remain inconspicuous, they had all entered through the rear of the sept where the poor would sometimes gather to sleep at night.

With little to no words spoken from either Septon Meribald or Brienne, the two made their silent ways to their private rooms for a night of much needed sleep. Exhausted, the Maid was pleased to see she would have a room all to herself. The room was small, sparsely furnished with a few lit candles to welcome her. With walls made of high marble slabs Brienne instantly recognized the creamy white stones that had once belonged to the hills of Tarth.

Running one hand over the cool marble Brienne felt a cold comfort in having some connection to her homeland, no matter how distant it felt. From the corner of her eye, Brienne caught her reflection in the dark glass of the window pane and was shocked with a stony expression on her face.  

She had seen her own reflection many times over in the cave where she had been restored to life; a kind member of the Second Brotherhood loaned her a looking glass so she could watch her mortal wounds slowly heal, day by day. It wasn’t her face that bothered her now, it was who she saw reflected back in the dark glass that did.

With her pale skin, a jagged scar on her cheek, a thick line of healed flesh stretched almost entirely over her throat and to see her face buried so deep into the hood of her grey cloak, Brienne shuddered. In the distorted glass, she looked exactly like Lady Stoneheart.

Horrified by what she saw, Brienne knocked the hood from off her head with wide eyes and a gasping mouth; the sword bite that had once crossed her lips made her look like a gaping fish. With shaking hands, the Maid of Tarth squirmed out of the cloak and hung it over the window with a shuddering relief.

She knew Thoros had assured her she was still very much a woman, alive and fertile...but to see the haunted face of her beloved Catelyn Stark glaring back at her, she now knew what the Second Brotherhood now saw in her: she looked almost like an exact copy of their former leader.

Dumping her long body onto the edge of her soft bed, Brienne tried to calm herself down. The trial would take place in only a few days. Every mile closer to King's Landing felt like one mile closer to her final death. But the worst of it had always been the haunting thought of seeing Jaime again.

Brienne knew that Jaime's relationship with his twin sister was obviously a very perplexing, tangled affair. When she first heard him admit to the rumors of incest while a prisoner at Riverrun she was of course appalled, disgusted as any person would have naturally felt. But gradually, the more time she spent with Jaime, the longer she was forced to endure his endless ramblings; she gradually realized that he was not a true monster.  Even though his love affair was an affront to the Gods...somehow Brienne found it in her heart to understand; she somehow learned to accept that his relationship with his sister only a part of who he was, but it wasn’t the only thing that he was.  

With a cleansing breath, the Maid considered her options with some objectivity: Should she win, she would fulfill the dream both Thoros of Myr and Ser Berric Dondorian first had before the Brotherhood without Banners was formed; to take down and destroy the tyranny of Ser Gregor Clegane once and for all. But with his death, it would soon follow the death of Jaime's sister as well.

Should Brienne fail, Jaime's sister would no doubt live, but it would come at the cost of her own life. But with that the queen would also be restored to power, soon make commandments to have more soldiers be made in Robert Strong's image...and a dark shadow of horror would soon unfold upon all of Westeros.

Thoros of Myr had every right to be terrified by what he saw in the flames; should anyone survive the long winter, those who would remain would be enslaved by the brutal rule of undead soldiers.   Visions of white walkers and wights always trailed in the flames, but there would be no Westeros worth defending against them should Robert Strong and his like were to enslave the crownlands afterwards.

 _She had to defeat Robert Strong_ ; there was no other way to think of it.  But in the end, with the former queen’s head mounted on a spike and she stood victorious...what would become of her and Jaime?

Brienne knew that Jaime loved her; not even the thought of the most beautiful women of all of Westeros, queen Cersei, could ever take those laurels from her.  She would have to disguise herself from the members of court, from the young king, from Jaime if she is to fight.  And when she won, she would hope to smuggle herself back onto Tarth to one day lead a secluded life of peace and anonymity.  There would be no way Jaime could want her following her victory over Robert Strong.  

There would be no way he would ever want her still after the terrible things she did to him after they were reunited at Pennytree.  With a faint heart and a pounding headache, Brienne pulled her body, fully clothed onto her bed with heartbreak and exhaustion.  She wanted to be honorable, she wanted to serve and protect the weak and the innocent.  But she also wanted to love and be loved in return.

Too drained to fight her feelings any longer, she permitted slow tears to roll down her face in silence as she buried her head into the soft bed, wishing she could carve out the endless wanting from her own heart; to carve out her ceaseless wanting of Jaime’s love.

 

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Five weeks ago;

Fourteen miles outside of Pennytree:

 

They watered their horses in the early hours of dawn; a light drizzle had fallen onto the fields and over the hillside; neither one spoke; the morning was still a pretty one.  From a distance a bright crest of orange and pink sunlight broke over distant mountains; inky black tree lines started to transform into a dark emerald green...in an hours times the forest would be lit within with the colors of moss and ivy.  

Holding onto his horse's reins, Jaime watched Brienne from a distance.  When they had first stop to grant their horses a rest, both of them led their horses side by side, a quiet rustle of knee high grass brushing past their legs. There was a comfort in this quiet; neither one felt compelled to speak.  Neither one had any desire to ruin the moment.  Jaime looked at her, glancing from the side of his vision discreetly.  By a few yards, he was staring at her openly; at no point in the time when they led their horses to the pond did she once look back at him.  He knew she felt his gaze; he could see a faint blush rise up her neck; he watched her clench her jaw, he saw how still her eyes were; how focused.  She was afraid...just as he had been too.  But neither one understood why one was afraid of the other then.

As the horses drank, Jaime tried to tease Brienne.  With halfhearted attempts at japes he commented about how tired she looked; how pale, how ghastly even.  Each word spoken was another needle in her heart.  She knew this was his way of provoking her, to make her counteract and deny; her heart was too worn and heavy; she felt no inclination. She reminded herself she was only there to greet their ending.  He didn’t know that yet; he didn’t know a lot of things then.  Within an hours’ time her truth would be revealed and she knew he would never have to look at her face again.  

Though he made every effort to get her to talk, to say something to him; anything, nothing would follow her cold silence and pinched lips. Feeling as if though their time apart had become the death of their friendship, Jaime started to quietly panic.  Desperate to understand, wanting to keep her in his life, he decided now was the time to take a chance; he wanted to show her he could be kind.  That he wanted to be her true friend.

“I missed you.”  

The words landed on her ears and it fell heavy like a great stone that was dropped on her chest.  Looking down at her muddied boots, Brienne slowly nodded her head as if Jaime was giving her predictable commands before a battle.  With an awkward silence, Brienne led her horse further down the pond with a weary glance down at her feet.  With a stitch in his ribs and a drop in his breathing, Jaime watched Brienne step further away from him in every direction he ever wanted her to be.

While the horses grazed on field greens, Brienne removed on of her boots to knock out a pebble that had somehow lodged its way in there. Beneath a great oak tree that was as wide as an ox, Brienne watched the sun rise with a distant, haunted look on her face; she held her boot as if it were made of lead.  A faint look of tears crossed her face.  

From a distance Jaime could see her despair; she was doubting herself as a warrior, she was hating herself, she was hating him and this stupid quest her thrusted upon her; a quest for _his honor_ to be accomplished entirely by her and her alone.  How he wanted to cheer her up, he wanted to assure her that she was not a failure; she was everything and more he had hoped to be.  He admired her; he respected her; he even began to believe that…

From the corner of his eye, Jaime glanced behind a small gathering of pine trees to try and afford more time; he wanted to think of a way to cheer up Brienne.  To his utter astonishment he saw it; a small bloom, a winter rose.   _It truly is winter then._  For most it would have been something easy to dismiss but he was enchanted by the light, topaz blue frost of the small rose bud.  Wound up tight upon itself, the crisp petals would not blossom for at least a few more days, but he still considered the small beauty and felt a smile light in his face.  It was not an impressive specimen; it was no longer than a sewing needle, the bud was still hard and fresh with life and inexperience, but it was the first to bloom; in that moment it was instantly the most beautiful creation in the world to him.

Stepping across the field with a tall, confident stride, Jaime held his single hand behind his back with a casual air; Brienne remained seated beneath the great oak tree, holding her boot like an anchor weighted to her heart while she gazed out at some distant, golden point.  When he finally made his way to stand in front of her she paused; with a puzzled look and an annoyed glance, she looked up at Jaime with impatience as he blocked her view of the blooming sunrise.  

“Seeing as how you won't shut up about your time away from me, I thought it would be polite to interrupt you only to offer you this.”  From behind his Kingsguard armor, Jaime raised his hand from behind his back and carefully offered Brienne his small gift.  

“It’s the first winter rose.  I thought you’d like to have it; someone like you deserves to have some beauty in her life.  Gods know, other than your eyes, _you_ weren’t blessed with many examples for your own keeping.”  

To his dread, Jaime saw tears fill her winter rose eyes.  He didn’t mean to be vicious, it just somehow came out that way.  Glaring at the small rosebud in his fingers, Brienne studied the beautiful flower over with a slightly devastated look across her face. Reluctantly, she accepted the rosebud with a ghost of a smile and a threat of tears.  Twirling the stem between her thumb and forefinger with a long face, she looked down at the pretty bloom and winced.  For only one moment, Jaime foolishly thought that everything would be alright.  But with a deep inhale, she blinked her eyes clear and they turned cool like a glacier.  

Standing up to him with the force of a thunderbolt, Brienne twisted her body to become ramrod straight before she met his eyes. 

_He looks hopeful; damn him, he's hopeful._

Turning her jaw into a porcelain vice, Brienne forced herself to drain all joy, all thrill, all of the optimism Jaime had ever inspired in her.  Her eyes turned dead as she let out an obligatory exhale.  Forcing herself to feel nothing, she sighed and extended the rosebud back to him with a bored, annoyed voice.

“I hate roses.”

With the small flower shoved against the white enamel plate on his chest, Jaime felt the crushing force of not only Brienne’s hand, but of her rejection as well.  Watching her limp back to her seat back under the great oak tree with one boot still in her hand, Jaime felt something drain out of his spirit and his chest before he looked back up towards her. _Stupid. Stupid. That was so stupid_. He held on to the blue beauty for only a moment longer, looking at it one final time  before he flicked the small rosebud into the grass with a fool's defeat. He glared at her with a gentle snarl while she put her boot back on.

“Yes...I’m sure you grow quite tired of roses, my lady.  It’s only obvious to me now; suitors of every pedigree; noble knights and handsome lords all must throw roses at your feet, daily...it must be so boring!  So many men wanting you, and so many roses for your to trample upon.  I’m sure if you choose you could make a carpet out of roses, make it your pride to know that you march daily on the hearts of men who were stupid enough to think so well of you.  It must feel so exhausting for someone as beautiful as you to reject _so many_ stupid, admiring men; men you can only feel a fleeting pity for.”  Brienne stood still in the field with a rigid back and tense shoulders.  He continued in spite of a short catch in his breath and a hoarse sound in his voice. "Besides, what's the favor of a worthless, crippled knight?  A man with shit for honor such as I?  Worthless, isn't it? Rather a stupid idea, if I may say so."

It was evident to him he had given her offence.   _Good_. With a slight twist of her head, Brienne looked back over her shoulder; still facing away from him she spoke with a low, passionless voice.

“My apologies, _Ser_ ; I never asked for your favor and I would never burden you for such an impossible request.”

Flabbergasted, Jaime felt a disgusted laugh sputter from his mouth.  “ _Ser_?  Now I’m _Ser_?  Is that all I am to you now, _a formal acquaintance_?”    

“Better to be a formal acquaintance than a _Kingslayer_.  Ser.”

It was as if Brienne had possessed an invisible knife and somehow flayed his chest like he was a fresh kill from a hunt.  Not once in their entire exchange did she look back up to meet his eyes. Something was wrong; something was very wrong and he wanted to find out what had happened.    

Feeling humor and charm leave his mind, Jaime strode up to Brienne and tried to reach out to touch her left cheek.  “ _What is this?_  This is a fresh wound.  What happened?  What have you seen?”  Stepping into her personal space Brienne could smell the faint scent of his warm skin as she longed to touch his soft hair.  Taking a chance, Jaime tried to reach up to touch her cheek.  

“Who did this to you?”

Feeling his eyes bore into hers, Brienne could feel her breath grow thin and shallow before she reached up her hand to knock his only one away.  With an angry force she clipped her thick arm into his shoulder before she began to march away with pounding steps like an angry bear.

Aghast by her behavior, Jaime coiled around to reach for Brienne's hand, he wanted to see her eyes to know what had happened to his friend.  

Just as his cold fingers began to twine themselves between her own, Jaime felt a crash of pain ringing through his body before he felt himself tumble to the ground; distantly, he realized she had punched him in the throat.  

Sprawled out on the field face down, not able to move, Jaime wanted to gasp and cry out; the wind was knocked out of him.  It felt like his armor was made of stone as he struggled to move from his prone state from off the ground.  He struggled to gasp, but he couldn’t.  He felt his lungs scream for air but he could not breathe.  Rolling to his side, Jaime tried to clear his mind from panic but all he could think about was the fact was his friend had just punched him in the throat.  

A rough sputter of coughs tumbled out of his wheezing lungs.  He coughed again with hopes to breathe; still it felt like only more air left his body.  He struggled to pulled his knees on to the ground beneath him; he tried to prop himself back up but soon felt a heavy boot press down on his back into the frosted grass beneath him.  Far off in the atmosphere of his struggles Jaime thought he could hear sniveling.  He thought he heard gasping and crying.  With her boot pressed so hard into his back, pressed deep between his shoulder blades, he felt as if though he were about to die.  

Just as he managed to claim his first breath in what felt like hours, Jaime felt a heavy iron collar wrapped around and bolted to his neck.  Two weighted chains hung from his freezing collar; one was held tight in Brienne's hand like a leash, the other was attached to a fetter that was quickly snapped around his one hand behind him.  With a raspy voice, Jaime choked out words he had to say.

"Brienne...what is...?  What--what has happened to you?"

She never answered him, he only heard her mournful tears behind him; he was still prone on the ground, his one hand clasped behind his back, hooked to the dense collar around his neck.

"Brienne...please. This isn't...  Please, _please tell me what's wrong!"_

She never answered him; instead she reluctantly covered his head with a thick burlap sack around his head and cinched it tight beneath his collar. Just then, the roll of hoof beats started to make its way around the pond. With weeping, Brienne could only say one thing from a distance before the Brotherhood without Banners got off their horses to claim their prize.

_"I'm so sorry Jaime."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some big things will happen in the next chapter:
> 
> We are going to learn how Brienne died.  
> We are going to see the start of the trial by combat.  
> We are going to see the beginning of a reunion.
> 
> Fair warning: The next chapter will be brutal; it's going to be a blinding supernova of angst.  
> There were parts I had wrote that I just hated to write, but I had to. But, I'm a person who  
> keeps their promises: this will be a happy ending. No tricks. Promise.


	11. The Light Wraps You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is remembered; Jaime says 'goodbye'; Brienne is preparing to say 'hello'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am relieved to finally publish this chapter.
> 
> It's always darkest before the dawn.  
> Dawn approaches with the next chapter.

The title from this chapter is from a poem by Pablo Neruda. You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/The-Light-Wraps-You) if you're interested. 

 

___________________________________________________________________

 

 

The Red Keep; The Present:

The assassination attempt against his Grace was foiled by the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Darren Swann, first cousin to Ser Balon Swann. The little king was being led through the Street of Steel on a beautiful speckled horse, a sweet mare by the name of Spot, three days before his mother's trial by combat.

Tommen Baratheon was well guarded; he had been led through the streets with a succession of Goldcloaks in each direction; Lannister soldiers kept vigil of the crowds, but somehow, one crazed man managed to squeeze his way past everyone and tried to slash at his Grace with a rusted knife; the mad man lunged at the little king with a wild, desperate reach.

Grateful that his only son's life had been spared, Jaime held Tommen close to his chest as his little sobs slowed to breathy hiccups and sniveling apologies back at the Red Keep. Distractedly, Jaime was disturbed by how this attempt against his son's life had transpired only the day after he mournfully retired from the Kingsguard. As he watched his son being led away by a kind septa for his daily lessons, Jamie couldn't help but wonder:   _"Perhaps he had only survived because I'm no longer a member of the Kingsguard."_

Cersei's trial by combat was fast approaching; because of it, Tommen suffered greatly; he had troubles concentrating, he ate very little, none of his beloved cats could distract him from his troubles. Jaime knew Tommen's relationship to his mother was a fragile, stressed one, at best. Sometimes it had almost seemed that what made Tommen miserable was the fact that it was not so much his mother's fate he dwelled on, rather, what may happen should her trial end with a success. Often times, Jaime was unnerved by how frequently his son would look up at him with hopeful eyes, trying to regain assurances that his uncle Jaime would always remain a regent if the gods had proved his mother’s innocence. Jaime would smile down at his king and promised him 'yes,' but in his heart, he was reminded of choking the life from his sweet sister; soon after he’d feel a wet knot bind his tongue with fear.

That night, Lord Commander Darren Swann was praised all throughout the Red Keep as a true knight. For gratitude of his loyal service, Jaime suggested for his son to gift the new Lord Commander with gilded dagger as a token of his appreciation. The court of Kings Landing celebrated that night with a modest feast and celebration. Jaime felt himself lingering in the shadows of the festivities, entertaining a bleak, shuddering thought of how different things might have been had Tommen had died that morning.

"Heard they caught the bastard!"

Jaime spun around to find Ser Addam Marbrand standing behind him. Grateful for a distraction, Jaime smiled as he shook his friend's hand with a genuine laugh.  Slapping the regent's back with a smile of his own, Addam was relieved to see Jaime doing so well.

"My first day as a retired member of the Kingsguard and his Grace is already saved."

Addam rolled his eyes as he made a snort of derision; he tried to carefully ease his old friend’s insecurities.  "Hardly even a worthy thought, Ser."

Jaime nodded with a distant smile; there was still another spot to fill in the Kingsguard...Jaime wondered if Addam would be interested.

"What brings you to the capitol?  Any word on the Blackfish?" Ser Marbrand shrugged with one shoulder and an annoyed face.

"A spy in the Vale has reported seeing him. Says the bastard is making his way towards the Bloody Gate; apparently, he's biding his time in some secluded hovel until the Lannister forces in the Riverlands is reduced further."  

Jaime nodded.  Feeling almost suspicious, he narrowed his eyes at Addam with a small smile. Addam's face blanched slightly as he continued with a lower voice.  "I had just heard the High Sparrow has found his champion..."  Jaime lowered his head with understanding.  "I thought...I thought in light of all that's happened...you should have a friend in your corner--no matter what the outcome."  Touched by his words, the regent smiled back at his friend with a tight grin.

As both men watched the feasting and celebration from a distance, Ser Addam continued. "When will the assassin be tried?"  

Gazing at his son with distraction, Jaime eventually replied. "Tomorrow.  He was a lunatic...charging at a small child with a knife...screaming to anyone who would listen about how the king was an abomination."  Jaime sighed. "He'll be executed following the trial, no doubt...but to me…” His words trailed with thought.  “To execute a simpleton feels...ignoble."  

Addam looked at his friend with slight concern.  "But he attempted regicide.  The sentence is death; lunatic or no."  Addam was startled.  "You don't feel sorry for him, do you?"

Jaime watched his Grace smile with contentment as Ser Darren Swann made a deep and chivalrous bow; The new Lord Commander was expressing his deepest gratitude for receiving a glorious blade.

"I think...I think that every villain truly believes that they are the hero, Addam."

 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

Twenty Two Miles Outside of Pennytree;

Six Weeks Ago:

 

Once Jaime Lannister had been captured, he was soon surrounded by the Brotherhood Without Banners; without hesitation, one member of the Brotherhood kicked Jaime hard in the stomach.  As Jaime suffered in pain, another member of the brotherhood gagged his mouth with rope while his head was still concealed.    

Through whoops of cheer and celebration, members of the Brotherhood sarcastically congratulated the Maid for betraying her friend and ‘lover’; each man savored their turn, purring out the words, “ _Thank you, Kingslayer’s Whore_ ” with a cloying gratitude and shit eating grins.  Amongst the crackle of boisterous laughter and cruel, heartless taunts, Brienne cried as she watched the men tossed Jaime across the back of his horse and bound him to the saddle with a brutal strength; to see a beautiful lion become so wounded and betrayed…it felt like a slow, torturous death to Brienne.

She was lashed to the horn of Honor's saddle, Jaime’s Honor…the horse that now carried her friend; Brienne was forced to watch Jaime fight and struggle for a long time while her heavy shoulders dropped with shame. For the first three miles, Jaime struggled as any noble hero would; he kicked and screamed, he twisted his head and thrashed his body; he tried to slide off the saddle but he was bound with rope too tight to even move. By the fifth mile, something had happened; something broke deep inside of his heart. With the approach of the sixth mile, Brienne could hear a soft call of words muffled by the sack over his head along with the thick ropes gagging his mouth.

Jaime tried to enunciate two muffled syllables; he would repeat them, over and over again.  He was trying to call out her name, _“Brienne.”_ The same, heartbreaking sound was tired and defeated; he repeated it steadily; those two syllables, again and again with a soft, fading voice. Tired of hearing only her silence, by the eighth mile Jaime had become as silent as the grave.

The sight of Jaime, bound up and thrown over Honor like a sack of grain, was too much for Brienne. She wished she could have seen Jaime's face only to assure him that everything would be fine; she was glad that he could not see her though. To feel his betrayal, to know his hurt and to see his disappointment would have been her complete undoing.

 

____________________________________________________________________

Traitor’s Walk; The Present:

 

The following morning a trial was held, the young simpleton who tried to assassinate the young king, Tommen Baratheon, was sentenced to die at sunset.  It was with a singular feeling in the regent’s heart to know that a simple man was about to die; a man so simple, he could not understand what was about to happen to him.

All throughout the trial the offender made impatient sounds; he spoke only a few words of absurdity, some were understood, but for the most part, the would be assassin smiled at everyone as if he were a king, and those assembled in court were only his fawning entourage.  After a dozen testimonies, all confirming that the simpleton had indeed tried to murder the king on the Street of Steel, the Small Council declared the young man to be executed by beheading at sunset.

While the young man was being led away, Jaime felt strange.  He was glad justice had been served; however, he still felt a rot linger in his heart.

Upon the hour of sunset, the simpleton was escorted up from the dungeons of Traitor’s Walk with a great smile on his face.  Jaime felt ill knowing that this young man had no true understanding of what he had done.  

Lannister soldiers lined the modest courtyard used only for executions; remotely, Jaime realized that if Cersei’s champion had failed her tomorrow, this was where she would suffer her last moments alive.  

The young man, a fool who people called Kelley, clapped wildly once he saw the executioner with a black hood on his face at the center of the courtyard.  Because Ser Ilyn Payne was with his distant cousin in the north to find Sansa Stark, a new King’s Justice had to be selected for the duration of Ser Ilyn’s absence.  The new executioner was tall, thin and had a presumptuous air of entitlement.  He was a lowly knight with only a faint gratitude for his unwanted station at the Red Keep.  

Tommen would not attend the execution; he was too young, too traumatized to allow himself to watch.  By Jaime’s side was Ser Addam Marbrand.  Lord Selwyn of Tarth did attend the trial, but did not have the stomach to watch an execution; instead, the Evenstar chose to spend time with his Grace, keepig him in cheerful company.

As the guards lowered the simple man, Kelley, down onto his knees, all of the mirth and merriment died in his eyes once he saw the executioner unsheathe a great blade from his black scabbard.  With his chest bound tight by ropes to a blood stained block, Kelley started to make uncomfortable, foreboding sounds.  Once the King’s Justice approached the simpleton with his great sword, Kelley began to weep in confusion. Jaime wanted to throw up.  

Ser Addam understood Jaime’s disgust; he had anointed himself with the duty to make the formal command and sentence the simpleton to his death; Jaime was grateful.

 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

Hollow Hill; Six Weeks Ago:

 

When Brienne had refused to make a choice between the noose or the sword, she was crippled with indecision; once the noose around her neck had started to tightened, she could see Ser Hyle and little Pod slowly choke to death.  She knew what she had to do; crying out the word 'sword' was the most painful, the most horrifying choice she ever had to make.

Once all three had finally been cut down from the tree, Brienne was relieved to see Pod and Hyle being led away to safety inside of the black bowels of Hollow Hill.  The Brotherhood gathered around Brienne's gagging, coughing body as she struggled to breathe; they had informed her she now had to capture the Kingslayer so she could execute him before their eyes.

To Lady Stoneheart, it had become obvious that Brienne—in spite of everything—had somehow fallen in love with the Oathbreaker. As an undead creature whose heart was once made of flesh, Stoneheart knew Brienne would try to trick the Brotherhood with some imposter’s head, obscuring his features in thick tar with the hopes to fool them all. Forcing Brienne to find Jaime, ensnaring him into a trap and watching his betrayal cross his eyes before she executed him was too sweet of a revenge for Stoneheart to ignore; it had to be done.

Upon hearing the plans the Brotherhood had made for Brienne, she studied Lady Stoneheart all the while: Her pale, clotted face was sunken deep into the hood of her grey cloak like a drowning nightmare; her ragged, scarred cheeks ran fresh with rot along with the thick slash wound across her milk curdled throat.

_To think, I had once wished for Catelyn Stark to be my mother._

_Perhaps, for all of my silly wishing, I have become her daughter._

Brienne rode out that night, in search for Jaime.  She knew the Brotherhood would be trailing her every move; she could see them linger at a distance no matter where she turned.  By the second day of her search for Jaime, she finally received word that there was a Lannister camp over by Raventree Hall.  On the third day she caught up only to discover that the camp was now on the move to Pennytree.  Feeling so close yet so terrified, Brienne made plans for what to do next.  

With a mournful voice, Brienne went into a smith shop to request an iron collar that had two chains attached to it; one to hold on to and the other to ensnare a hand into a manacle.  By sunset, the collar was made, and Brienne rode out to see Jaime with foreboding.

Lannister scouts greeted Brienne that evening, she made the terse demanded to see Jaime Lannister without any delay.  Befuddled by the sight of a woman dressed as a man, commanding them to see their Lord Commander would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so strange to witness. Reluctantly, they led her to him, both of the men exchanging glances with one another in confusion and curiosity.  

For Brienne, to see her beloved Jaime once more, looking safe and well suited in leadership, it had felt like watching the warm rays of sunlight break through the clouds after a terrifying storm.  She wanted to smile, hold his hand, to hold him and to be held by him in return; she wanted to run her face into his neck and whisper the threat that had been made against her life, for Pod and for Ser Hyle.  She wanted to kiss him only once if this was to be her last day on this earth.  

Instead, she lied; she had spoken false words, silly words about Sansa Stark and the Hound.  She had repeated the lie to herself over and over for a day, both in her head and out loud with a stumbling tongue until it started to feel like the truth to her.  She lied; she had to lie so that Jaime might have a chance to live.

She was always tempted to tell him the truth; nothing on this earth, not even a kiss from him would have been sweeter.  Instead she led him astray from the safety and forces of the Lannister men.  He had believed her; Gods be with her, he believed in her entirely.  She wanted to weep.

Brienne knew that if she didn’t do this, lead Jaime to the Brotherhood, then he would have lived with the threat of terror for the rest of his life; he would know that the Brotherhood Without Banners would only be waiting for a single moment for Jaime to be alone and vulnerable.  To be hunted and stalked, trailed and teased mercilessly was not a life worth living; in that terrible existence, only death would become a blessing.  If Brienne wanted Jaime to live a long life with safety and in peace, Brienne would have to lead him astray in order for him to return back to his path of honor; she would be dead, but he would be free to choose whatever he wanted.

All throughout the journey to Hollow Hill, members of the Brotherhood without Banners would spit at Jaime's submissive back with brash, wild amusement. They had enjoyed lashing at him, calling him terrible names: ‘Sisterfucker’, ’Oathbreaker,’ ‘Man without honor;’ the worst for Brienne to hear was the constant use of the hateful name, ‘Kingslayer.’

Once they had arrived at the Hill, both she and Jaime were dragged and punched, kicked and sneered as they were unbridled from Jaime’s horse, Honor; Jaime’s white Kingsguard armor had been stripped away after he was captured at the pond.  With a sharp gasp, Brienne watched the men pull off the burlap sack from Jaime’s head while Jack-Be-Lucky unceremoniously dumped the Kingsguard armor and his golden hand into an unwanted pile outside.  To Brienne, it had been apparent that Jaime had been crying; if it was obvious to the other men that surrounded them, no one had thought to mention it.   For one agonizing moment, Jaime raised his wounded eyes to catch Brienne’s; with her breaking heart, Brienne whispered only two words that meant everything to her:

“I’m sorry.”  

Jaime heard her words; he did nothing.  Instead she watched his lifeless eyes drift down towards his feet with a flash of hurt on his face.  Both Jaime and Brienne were led to the mouth of the cave with a wide clearing; at the center of this space, all had been greeted by a great fire in a pit that was filled with bones and ashes.  A sharp wind started to rise through the tops of trees; a storm would be soon coming.

Brienne and Jaime struggled to have their eyes adjust to the fresh darkness.  In a looming silence, the men of the Brotherhood fell into an eerie hush as Lady Stoneheart began to emerge from the shadows of the cave; everyone became motionless under Stoneheart’s grim presence.  Lem Lemoncloak took it upon himself to have their guests express proper courtesies; with a hard jab, he knocked his foot into the back of both Jaime and Brienne’s knees.  Both fell with a hard thud to the ground below in front of the great fire pit; together they bowed their heads in the sight of death incarnate.  With pride, Lem spoke up with a clear and joyful voice.

 _“_ My lady _, the Kingslayer_ and the _Kingslayer’s Whore.”_

For the first time in a long while, Jaime finally spoke up with a hurtful voice.   

“Why would you call her that?”  

Jaime couldn’t look at her; he was betrayed by her...he couldn’t even stand to be near her, but he wanted to defend her honor all the same.  

Notch was only too happy to fill Jaime in.  “Because the moment she was captured, all that ugly whore could do was moan out your name, _Kingslayer_.”  Jaime felt his eyes slowly turn to Brienne; she was too ashamed to look back at him.  “You should have heard her!”  Men of the Brotherhood started to erupt with a cruel laughter that echoed all throughout the cave.  “She was constantly moaning out your name as if you still had your little cock buried inside her!”

Heavy tears fell; Brienne no longer cared if Jaime saw them.  Jaime watched her carefully; she screwed her eyes shut with despair.  From a distance, Thoros of Myr and a few other men wandered into the entrance of the cavern as they watched everything unfold with silence; they had only just returned from a hunt for wild game.

“Silence.”  The hissing voice of Lady Stoneheart bled the humor right out of the hollow.  Jaime looked up at the former Catelyn Stark with a faint terror of recognition; Brienne could do nothing but feel helpless.       

 _I would never have been good enough to be Lady Stark’s daughter; I belong to Stoneheart instead._

_I failed King Renly. I failed Lady Catelyn. I've betrayed Jaime…_

_There is no honor left in me; I am Stoneheart's progeny._

_"_ Release. Her."  Stoneheart's voice may have been faint but it commanded the attention of the men who surrounded Brienne. Pulled up by her arms, one which was still healing from a fracture, Brienne was made to be propped up like a rag doll as she looked down upon Jaime. Not once did he look back at her. He knew what was about to happen…

As one man unbound Brienne's wrists, the Maid stared at Lady Stoneheart with a numb and hollowed out wonder.  Stoneheart clutched her throat together to speak out another order.

"Oathbreaker."  

Jaime watched in confusion as Lem handed Oathkeeper back to Brienne; Lem had removed the blade from Brienne shortly after they had captured Jaime by the pond.   It wasn't until the Maid had received her blade did Jaime realize that Stoneheart chosen to christen Brienne’s beautiful gift with a blasphemous name.  

“Kill. Him.”

Brienne looked down at the magnificent sword with fresh tears.  She could feel Jaime’s eyes on hers.  With a firm resolve, she lowered her blade and spoke only one word.

“No.”

 

_______________________________________________________________________ 

Traitor’s Walk; The Present:

 

The executioner stepped behind Kelley with a cocky stroll and a faint smirk beneath his black hood.  Bracing the sword high above the imbecile’s neck, it was evident he was eager to impress the court.  Jaime only wanted it to be done with by now.  As Kelley began to weep with a strange, newfound clarity, the King’s Justice lowered his sword with a heavy blow.

And he missed.

Instead of landing the blade across the young fool’s neck, the executioner’s sword landed deep into the back of the young man with a bloody gush.  The young man wailed out in pain and tortured cries.  Jaime stood there in shock, horrified by what he had just seen.

Struggling to pull the sword from out of the screaming prisoner’s back, the executioner fumbled with the heavy sword as he tried to lodge it out of the stubborn grip of a vertebrae.  Weeping, howling, bleeding like a stuck pig, Kelley’s screams echoed all throughout Traitor’s Walk without any understanding.  Eventually, the executioner removed the blade and swung again.

Again, he missed.

This time the blade had sunken into the shoulder of Kelley, slicing off a part of his arm clean off; the crying was inhumane, the torture of this man was beyond everything noble and honorable.  Incensed, Jaime marched over to Kelley’s bleeding body as his screams continued.  Catching the eye of the King’s Justice, Jaime promptly strode up to him and cracked his golden hand across the executioner’s face with a violent blow.

Once the sword was dropped, Jaime promptly picked it up with his hand made of flesh and tasted the bile at the back of his throat.  Feeling Kelley’s eyes glancing back up at Jaime with terror, Jaime briefly closed his eyes before he swung down, fast and true.  

Kelley’s screams had finally been silenced.  His weeping, bloody head rolled into a ghoulish puddle as the members of the court and guards all watched Jaime with astonishment.  Pulling himself back up from off the floor, the executioner peeled off his black hood in disbelief.  

Dropping the heavy sword felt like a blessing; with revulsion, Jaime looked back at the lowly knight who managed to botch a simple execution. With a boiling rage, the regent cracked his golden hand across the young man's jaw once more; a thick spray of blood sputtered out of King’s Justice’s mouth with a sharp turn of his head.  Jaime stood in the widening pool of Kelley's blood and yelled at the shamed executioner with hatred.

 _“You son of a fucking whore!_  You dare to call yourself the King's _Justice?_  You couldn’t hit water if you fell off of a boat!"  

Jaime began to pant with a heaving, breathless gasp.

" _When you kill, you kill clean!_ No one deserves your butchery!"  The regent stepped closer to the disgraced executioner with a seething voice.  "I want you out of King’s Landing by dawn. I don't want to see you ever again or you _will know_ how it is to die like this man had!”

Aghast, all members in the executioner’s courtyard watched Jaime carefully.  As his breathing grew frantic and his jaw clenched with rage, the regent marched out of the courtyard with a thick trail of bloody footprints, marking the gory warpath of Jaime’s brisk gait.  

 

_______________________________________________________________________

Hollow Hill; Six weeks ago:

 

“I said, no.”

Stoneheart seethed; Brienne continued, holding the lowered blade in front of Jaime.

“Let me see Pod and Ser Hyle.  Let me see that they still live and I will grant you the Kingslayer’s head.” Jaime visibly flinched only when Brienne had called him that hateful name.

For one tense moment, Stoneheart and Brienne locked eyes.  After a long silence, the moment finally broke; Stoneheart nodded her head to have one of the men show Brienne her proof of life.

After some time, a distant rattling along with angry words could be heard; a member of the Brotherhood led Ser Hyle by chains towards Brienne and Stoneheart.  Hyle still looked no better than he did before; one half of his face was swollen with blue and black bruises while blood swollen blisters mushroomed beneath shiny skin.  Relived, Brienne called out to Ser Hyle.

“Hyle.  Does Pod still live?”  Reluctantly, the hedge knight nodded his raw looking face.  With thick words trembled in pain, he responded to her query with gasps.

“He’s locked in a cell further down from me, my lady.”

With a slow drawl, Stoneheart continued.  

“Kill.  Him.”

_I am the daughter of death...and I am now welcomed home._

Brienne held the blade up again with an eerie stillness.  

Brienne looked down at Jaime with love.  His heart had been broken, but he had somehow understood.  

_I will take the Stranger to be my Lord husband; my marriage bed shall be a tomb;_

_worms will claim my maidenhead; the only children born of my womb will be of maggots and decay._

She raised the blade high with a tight breath.  Jaime closed his eyes with acceptance.  

_He saved my life from the Bloody Mummers; he lied about sapphires to protect me from rape._

Stoneheart hissed. _"Do. It."_

_He jumped into a bear pit with no weapons and only one hand; he took me away from Harrenhal to keep me safe._

_He sheltered me when Loras Tyrell tried to have me killed; he defended me against the accusation that I had slayed King Renley._

With a sharp glance at Beardless Dick, Stoneheart nodded her head at Brienne; he fast approached.

_Jaime saved my life three times. Three lives… in exchange for one dishonorable girl._

_Yes:That sounds like a fine trade to me._

 

Brienne looked down at Jaime; for one startling moment he offered up to her a fragile, parting smile. It was then she knew what she had to do.

 

 

_____________________________________________________________________

The Grey Tower; The Present:

 

 

On the morning of the trial, Qyburn entered the queen's cell with an easy, smiling face; he no longer bothered with knocking.

Ever since his service to the queen had been fully restored, the former maester no long had Lannister soldiers escorting him everywhere. Though he was still not permitted entry into the black cells, he was not worried.  Once Ser Robert Strong proven to be victorious, Qyburn knew the queen would be in his debt forever. He had plans, a vision; a dream worthy of any ruling power. Deep within the catacombs of the black cells, Qyburn stored away his enduring legacy like a sacred prize.  Once the trial of the Faith had been concluded, his dream would finally be realized and Qyburn's name would live on with infamy.

Insisting to keep her Lannister pride intact, the former queen regent dressed herself in a long silk gown with a wild burgundy shade that carried sweeping gold accents at the hem. Small rubies were lavishly sewn into the bodice, making her Grace shimmer with every move of her torso. She may have been on trial but she would not greet the court as a broken woman. She may have had her mane shorn and lacking one foot, but she was still a daughter of the Rock; a lion knew no fear.

Seated primly in the overcast daylight, the former queen regent watched Qyburn with disgust until he raised his eyes up to look at her; in an instant her green eyes and full lips flashed with a honeyed smile.

In one hand, Qyburn held a heavy flagon of Arbor red, one of the finest vintages in Westeros; in the other hand, Qyburn held two ornate, silver chalices; they were embossed with golden scrolls and had red garnet stones mounted into the gold work.  A great smile crawled across his grandfatherly face.

"Your Grace. His Grace, King Tommen, is pleased to present to you one of his finest wines in all of the Red Keep."  

"And King Tommen?  My son...is he..."

With a doleful shake of his head, Qyburn assured his queen she would not see her son until after her champion stood victorious. Feeling her heart slowly break, Cersei nodded with a gradual acceptance. It was obviously that Jaime didn't want her son to see her before the trial.

That didn't matter now.

"As requested, your Grace, I've provided two beautiful goblets to drink from this afternoon."  Cersei nodded as she wiped a rebellious tear that dared to fall without her leave. With a very careful voice, deliberate and exact, Qyburn continued, fully aware a septon guard stood close to the queen's cell door.

" _This_ goblet is a fine one; in perfect condition."  The former maester held up one of the chalices with a theatrical air of presentation. Cersei nodded firmly; Qyburn continued.

"Now _this_ goblet...this goblet has only a minor... _defect_ with it."  The grandfatherly maester showed an identical goblet to his Queen, this one was held closer to Cersei's face with a small look of pride. The lioness examined the interior of the silver chalice with faint surprise; there was nothing inside.

"As you may see, your Grace, the _defect_ lies with this garnet stone right here."  With a wrinkled hand, Qyburn showed his queen a large garnet that wobbled easily in its gold mounting on the exterior. "The craftsmanship for this chalice may have once been fine, but it's obvious to see, your Grace, this goblet is _not worthy_ for your consumption."  

With a hard glare, Qyburn silently pleaded to his queen with pointed eyes. With lips parted and dazed eyes, the queen nodded again.

"When will Ser Jaime be seeing me?"  The former queen proceeded to fill her unblemished chalice with wine as she spoke in a firm tone.  Qyburn sat across from his queen as she drank deep from her cup.

"Ser Jaime said he will be here within an hour before the trial."  

With a healthy swallow of the sweet red, Cersei felt a gradual smile unfurl across her mouth in spite of the violet bruises around her throat. She was quietly pleased.

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

The Sept of Baelor; The Present:

 

 

Outside the of the great Sept, crowds had gathered; many had begun to cheer once it came closer to begin the trial; most had gathered around the sept wanting to see the champion who would defend the Faith against the crown.

From behind the great weirwood doors, Brienne fussed over her new armor with slight nerves. She wasn't nervous about the battle, merely the spectacle that now began to clamor outside; many had begun to chant uproariously so they could be the first to catch a glimpse of her.

Although she was a woman who was resurrected by the Lord of Light, she was still a woman who was raised by the New Gods since childhood. On the morning of the trial, Brienne kneeled in front of the Warrior for hours in reverent prayer; her heart was heavy with confusion. Would the New Gods still favor her trial by combat, or was she doomed to fail because she was reborn under the power of the red god?

To defeat Robert Strong would be nothing less short of a miracle if rumors of him were to be believed. Even before his dark resurrection, Ser Gregor Clegane was a man considered to be a mythical opponent for even the greatest swordsmen.  

Brienne wished she could've at least had Oathkeeper by her side.

Fastening the final clasps on her matte black armor, Brienne looked down at Beth Bower with a thoughtful look; Beth fastened Brienne's gauntlets to her strong wrists while staring at the Seven Pointed Star enameled on her wide chest.

"Beth...I have a request to make."  The young woman glanced up at Brienne with a distracted look. Waiting for her complete attention, Brienne didn't continue until Beth had looked up at her with a solemn expression on her face.  Brienne continued.

"Win or lose: Should I die...you _must_ destroy my body."  Beth's mouth fell open with a startled look. _"I need you to swear to me you'll destroy my body._ I couldn't bare it..."  Brienne felt tears fill her throat. She let out a deep breath before she continued her request.   "I can't bear the thought of having Ser Jaime finding out it was me who had fought against his sister's champion. I can't stand the thought it."  Beth held onto Brienne's hand as a sister would; she held it tenderly as she began to understand Brienne's fears.

"I can't let him know that he watched me die _a second time_.  It's too cruel.  Please... _do anything_ ; ruin my face, feed me to the dogs, feed me to the flames _...anything_. Jaime must not know a woman had been fighting and _he must not know_ that the woman was me.   _Please_."

With tears in her eyes, Beth nodded her head with an unwilling promise.  "I swear, Lady Brienne.  I swear that win or lose; should you fall…I will be certain your body will be destroyed before you’re discovered."

Relieved, Brienne sighed with gratitude. She knew it was possible to have the Second Brotherhood find another red priest to resurrect her again, but Brienne had vehemently refused the idea.  She still feared for the loss of her humanity; the Gods only knew what little of her would be remain should she be returned from the dead once more.

Septon Meribald walked into the main entrance of the sept with the six other septons, all dressed in dark brown robes and hoods obscuring their faces. They were there to escort Brienne to the Red Keep for the trial.

In Septon Meribald's hands he held a leather sack with a strange shape withheld inside; Brienne didn't pay it any mind.

"My lady.  It's time."  

Brienne watched the hope rise in the septon's eyes, she felt an unease ride down her shoulders but she would not show the crowds her fear. Only to Meribald and the Second Brotherhood would she allow them to know her doubts; even still, he had held every faith in her.

Nodding her head down at Beth Bower, the thin woman handed Brienne a great black helm to place over head. As the great helm began to lower, Brienne wondered if she would live to see the end of this day. With thick metal clasp securing the helmet snug to her head, she breathed in deep and felt a prayer to the Warrior come to mind.

With a great pause, Brienne steeled herself in readiness just as the great weirwood doors began to slowly up open. Once she stepped outside the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor, the crowds started to roar like a bloody tempest.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

Hollow Hill; Six weeks ago:

 

 

With a great heave of her arms, Brienne raised her sword and slammed down with a great force across Stoneheart's rotted throat. With an appalling slice, a putrid rot filled the cave as dark brown blood burbled out of the stump that had once held her head. With stunned amazement Brienne caught Jaime's gaze before she kicked him in the ribs to roll him out of the way. Beardless Dick had now drawn his sword.

On his side with a fresh hell pounding between his ribs, Jaime curled up low and to the side as he saw the rotted corpse of Catelyn Stark crumpled nearby. To his horror he found a small family of mice had skittered out of the ragged hole that had once been her neck. Watching Brienne circle Beardless Dick with her Valeryian sword, Jaime sputtered for breath as he crawled behind a rock with his shortened arm. He still had his one hand bound behind his back.

Chasing one another around the great fire, Brienne felt her breathing slow as her hands grew firm. Her arm was still mending together from its break, but still, Brienne held on with pain for her dear life.

Swords clashed and checked, sparks flew; though his efforts were considerable his sword was no match to Oathkeeper. With one true swipe, Dick’s sword was cut down into a nub.  Without a weapon, Beardless Dick looked frightened before Brienne drove her blade deep into his belly.  

Somehow in the insanity of a heated exchange, brothers started to fight against brothers. Morale within the Brotherhood had already suffered, long before Brienne had arrived; to have her stand up against the tyranny of Lady Stoneheart inspired the disenfranchised to rebel in hopes of returning to an honorable beginning.

Among the clash of swords and the chaos of the moment, Brienne sought out Jaime with relief and helped him crawl away from the fighting.

In a darkened corner of the cave, Brienne led Jaime to a secluded enclosure. Panting, heaving, she didn't know she had been crying only until Jaime looked up at her with worried eyes. Sniffing with embarrassment, she returned a shy smile back at him. The clash of steel rang out from the interior of the ghostly cave.  Searching around her for any sign of hope, Brienne found what she had desperately needed. Making brief eye contact with him, Brienne nodded her head at him before leading him to a stone wall with chains bolted deep into the ramparts.

Without knowing what she had planned, Jaime followed her, trusting her completely. In silence they hobbled together towards the stone wall with the bolted chains.  With a strange optimism in her eyes, Brienne began to quietly unravel a chain that was mounted into the wall behind Jaime.

Relieved for her help, he smiled up at her for one beautiful moment before she broke his trust in her again:  Quickly, she looped the chain attached to the wall around the chain that bound his iron cuff to his neck. With a loud snick of an steely lock, Jaime was now bound to the wall with his only hand still bound behind his back.  Brienne was desperate; she wanted to keep him safe and out of harm’s way. With a sad thought, she sincerely wondered if Jaime could have ever survived a fight such as this.

Amongst his stuttering of angry denials and venomous insults, Brienne silently greeted his anger and the feelings of betrayal she had now inspired in him. Perhaps now she could die knowing that it was never possible for a man like him to ever love a stupid wench like her.

Feeling his fear and spite roll of him in waves, Brienne covered his face again with the burlap sack through his blustering curses.  Although his anger had radiated, Brienne was relieved to no longer see his face as she tied the sack beneath his iron collar once more.

With a peculiar indulgence, Brienne started to caress Jaime’s obscured face with a tortured wanting. Just as he felt her hands stroke his face he felt his protests begin to falter with a teary silence; with a sniff of her tears, Brienne bent her head down to lovingly kiss Jaime’s forehead. With all her heart, Brienne gave to Jaime this first and final kiss.  He fell silent with devastation as she stood back up again to protect him this final time.

_Hate me Jaime._

_Hate me for everything._

_Hate me with your entire heart._

With Oathkeeper in her hand, Brienne marched forward to defend Jaime with her life.

 

 

____________________________________________________________________ 

The Grey Tower; The Present:

 

 

Jaime paused on the spiral staircase of the Grey Tower to finally meet with his sister, possibly for the very last time.

Looking down from a narrow arrowslit, Jaime watched a great crowd escort the Faith’s champion as he made his way towards the Red Keep with significant cheer and revelry; seven septons dressed in brown robes escorted the champion who was armored like the Stranger incarnate.  It hurt Jaime's heart to know that so many people had gathered to cheer for the death of his sister.   

With fascination he watched the tall warrior, dressed in black armor with an enameled seven pointed star on his chest; he rode towards the Red Keep on a magnificent war horse as people threw down roses at the feet of the champion's path. Thick hooves clipped and crushed tender rose petals as men exalted and women blew exuberant kisses. Jaime had wanted to see who the opponent to Ser Robert Strong was; he had been disappointed to find the champion chose to ride in with a great black helm on.

Returning back to the final steps of his sister's cell, Jaime climbed the tower thinking of his son. The last time he saw his mother, he had been terrified of her; for all he knew, that encounter may have been the last time the boy would ever see his mother alive.

Greeted at the great oaken door by the septon guard, Jaime carefully made his way into the cell room while he held his breath.  Once he had laid his eyes upon Cersei he held back a gasp for an entirely different reason.

Memories of their first night together in a ramshackle inn on Eel Alley crossed his heated memory.  Her mouth had searched his; his hands fumbling and squeezing her young and wanting body.  He thought of the evening he and his sister made passionate love shortly after her marriage to King Robert; he took her with a violent fury as guests on the Isle of Estermont; they had believed it was that night Joffrey had been conceived.  Everything between then had always been forbidden and passionate; taboo and scintillating.  As the full image of his sister came into the light of her cell, it was then that Jaime realized how everything they had ever done in the name of forbidden love could only be done in the formless shadows of an inescapable dark.  

He feasted his eyes upon her; in this light he could see faint crow’s feet gathering at the corners of her eyes; her once firm breasts began to sag with a mother’s history; it was obvious to him that there were silver hairs in her short, cropped hair; he now saw outlines that traced the faint shadows of a thousand spent smiles across her cheeks.  For all of the silk, the gold and the rubies she was wrapped in, there was nothing ever as beautiful to him now as the way when she smiled at him then.

His eyes lingered across the plum stained marks that were threaded across her throat; he felt his eyes lower with shame; she beckoned him with her fluttering hands in spite of what he had done to her earlier.  Relieved, ingrained with habit, he crossed the room to greet her with a faint smile.  

It felt absurd to kiss her on the cheek; a part of him still longed to pull her closer to his body and wrap his arms around her with a knowing caress.  With the septon guard still lingering by the open door, Jaime settled for planting a chaste peck on his sister’s cheek with a watery smile.  This may have been their end, but for Jaime, it somehow felt like the start of a new beginning.  He kneeled before her like a repentant servant to his beloved queen.

“Brother.  I’m so relieved you came.  I was hoping to see his Grace, the king…”

Jaime felt a tremendous relief hearing his sister’s calm voice; Cersei did not hear about the assassination attempt against Tommen’s life the other day.  Either Qyburn was oblivious or deceitful; possibly both; neither felt like a distant truth to Jaime.  Squeezing her hand, feeling a great weight had been lifted off his chest; Jaime faintly nodded, choosing not to startle his sister with the aborted threats against their son’s life.  

“His Grace is unwell...he sends you his love.”

“And you...you are still fading.  I can see even more silver in your beard.”

She ran her fingers across his cheek with a sweet elegance; how he wanted to kiss her then.  His eyes studied her lips for a staggering moment before the bruises on her neck came into a sharp focus; suddenly he became repelled with self-disgust.  He was disgusted in himself, true; he also felt a lingering disgust at his sister, for trying to slander Brienne’s memory with foul, dishonorable words.  Feeling the blood drain from his face, he gently lowered Cersei’s hand before he became stony quiet.  

“Why would you want to see me?  After I had done something so…”

“So abhorrent?”  A flash of wildfire danced across the former queen’s eyes; in an instant they were gone, fluttered into a fan of curling eyelashes that had started to grow thin with age.  Gritting his jaw with chagrin, Jaime nodded only once.  

“Why, dear brother.  If my champion fails and I am to meet the Gods today…I wish to be cleansed of my sins.”  Still seated upon her bed as if it were upon the iron throne, Cersei traced her soft thumb over Jaime’s thin lips before she continued.  “I’ve summoned you to broker a peace between us.”  She watched his eyes flutter close for a moment before she continued.  “Can you forgive me, for my insolent words?  I regret them...I regret your anger towards me.”

Weakened by her comfort, Jaime sighed with a deep breath as he felt his one hand wrap around Cersei’s caressing fingers. Pulling her hand close to his mouth, he kissed her cool, feather like touches before he smiled back.  “Only if you can forgive me for my abhorrent behavior.”

A tight smile coiled on Cersei’s lips just as Jaime closed his eyes and kissed her fingers once more.  He glanced back up at the mother of his children; her lips quickly softened with the air of an easy pardon. 

“A toast then; to seal our pact.”  The way the overcast light had outlined Cersei’s golden head made Jaime feel as if some part of the Maiden still lingered within her somewhere.  With a slow smile, Jaime faintly agreed before he turned his back around to search for the flagon of wine.  His sister examined his every move with hard eyes, narrowing with mistrust.

 

 

_______________________________________________________________________

Hollow Hill; Six Weeks Earlier:

 

 

She felt terrible for what she had done; she had been intolerably cruel to her Jaime.

With a slice of her blade, one member of the Brotherhood suffered a merciful death as Oathkeeper easily parted his head from his body; the blade sang with a whisper stroke, as smooth as spring grass mowed down by a glistening scythe.  From the far end of the cave, Brienne could see the red priest, Thoros of Myr, fighting off men with other men as well; these other men were no doubt followers of the Brotherhood who lost their faith in Stoneheart’s agenda.  

Dennett, one of the earliest members of the Brotherhood fought hand to hand with Likely Luke; with a thick dagger, Dennett rammed his blade into the stomach of Luke and a gruesome spray of thin blood and pink bowls fell out of him.  Before he could savor his victory, the victorious opponent fell to the ground when he was bludgeoned to death with a large rock that had been bashed into the back of his skull; a thin Brotherhood follower smiled with translucent brown teeth.  He didn’t smile for long; Brienne’s sword was quickly shoved into the thin man’s chest. In the corner of her eye, Brienne saw one Brotherhood member nick his sword into the lower jaw of Ser Hyle.  With a spray of dark blood, she watched Ser Hyle fall like a great tree.  Brienne was thunderstruck.

As the fire roared, blood sprayed across the cave floor as Thoro’s drove his sword into Jack-Be-Lucky’s back; his blood was soon drunk into the stone floor of the cave with a voracious thirst.  Watching the red priest with a gracious eye, Brienne began to make her way towards him when—it happened. 

A great pain fell upon her.

It felt like a blade had crossed from her hip and bit into her womb.  She rose up her broken right arm to defend but a series of thin swipes from a blade at her left side crossed down her right arm.  With her strength, she parried and thrusted; the Brotherhood member who slashed her hip was an older man with one milky eye and a weeping sore on his chest.  Disgusted, Brienne raised her sword up in defense but felt a light slash cross her lips; an evil kiss burned across her mouth, soon after blood pooled down her chin with alacrity.       

Thoros came to her side; the man to her left was easily extinguished; he had only one arm but he fought with a thin Bravosi blade.  The man to her right was another matter; Brienne could feel her heart pound in her chest; her breathing started to grow faint with a bizarre echo of panic in it; there was a strange buzzing in her ears as well.  With all of her strength, Brienne rose up her hand and jabbed Oathkeeper into the milky eye of the man who attacked her.  Relieved, she began to pause; her breathing was growing faint.

From behind, a young man attacked Brienne with a blunted sword.  She never felt the fall as her legs gave out beneath her.  The pain was a curious dullness, it only lingered in her neck; she felt nothing past her throat.

Thoros of Myr stepped above her and thrusted a bloody blade several times before she heard a dull thump drag against a jagged rock wall behind her.  The offending Brotherhood member still lingered; Thoros trailed the young man's limping form until Thoros drove his blade into him one final time across his chest. 

The cave fell into an incomprehensible silence.

From the corner of her eye, she watched the red priest drop his bloody sword down onto the cave with exhaustion.  A while later, he was staring into the flames with an intense focus. Hours, maybe seconds later, Thoros returned to Brienne’s side. 

Her eyes had fluttered opened; he examined her neck with worried eyes.  She blinked; it was all she could do.  Thoros gently traced his strong fingers across Brienne’s forehead with blessing and tenderness.  He closed in eyes with a faint prayer.  Brienne wanted to speak but felt too tired to move her mouth.  She looked up at the priest with curiosity.  His face turned grim before he could speak.  Eventually his words began to climb out of his choked throat.

“I owe you a great debt…an obligation.  I will make it so that...that every shadow will fear your presence.”

Brienne didn’t understand.  She couldn’t concentrate.  All she wanted to do was tell him about Jaime who was still locked up to a chain behind her.  She wanted to say that Pod was still imprisoned somewhere.  She wanted to say to look for Ser Hyle and to see to his wounds.  She couldn’t.  Her eyes fluttered closed and her world became nothing but an all-encompassing shadow.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

The Grey Tower; The Present:

 

 

Jaime paused for a long while with his silver goblet; slowly, he turned his back around with a goblet filled for only for him; he was searching for her glass to fill as well. 

Lifting up her goblet from a table next to her bed, Cersei raised her perfect chalice;  Jaime filled it with a look of shadowy knowing after he placed his down on the table nearby.  The regent’s eyes began to harden while his sister beamed up at him with a vague cheer.   Fiddling with a loose garnet stone mounted into his goblet, Jaime paused.

“I find it strange…sweet sister…that you are so eager to offer up your forgiveness to me.  After all, _you had wanted me to be your champion._ I never even answered your plea.  It should be me out there, shouldn’t it?  I should be out there, right now, preparing to die for your honor instead of Ser Robert Strong. That’s what you had always wanted, wasn’t it.”  Jaime fiddled with the loose stone in his chalice some more.  Cersei began to grow pale with Jaime’s suspicions. 

“Sweet brother…I am a woman changed by the light of the Seven.  The Crone had come to me in the black cells of the Sept; she raised her lantern high and showed me the path to righteousness.”

Jaime tried very hard to not roll his eyes at her; he never bought it.  He may still have loved her, but the love was a poison Jaime would never drink from again.   With a force, Jaime placed his goblet onto the table next to Cersei’s as her eyes bore into his. 

“You had always said, ‘We were born together; we will die together.’  You called for me to defend you; you knew…I would fail…you meant for us to die together, just as you’ve always wanted.”  Cersei shook her reddening face again with blatant denial; tears filled her glassy eyes.  With a low voice, Jaime purred in a threatening whisper.

“You always loved to tell people how we came into this world together; you _loved_ to say you had were born with my hand holding onto your foot.”  Jaime inhaled deeply with a barely contained rage.  He leaned close to her face.  “Tell me, sister, when Qyburn severed that rotted foot from off your leg, did you feel my grasp on you fall away as well?”  Cersei eyes began to grow hard while Jaime inched closer to her darting eyes. He continued in a venomous whisper.  “I only ask…because ever since the day I had lost my hand, I’ve felt your rotten grip release from me as well.” 

Without fear, Cersei leaned her face close to Jaime’s with a challenging spite.

“That’s only because _that rotting whore from Tarth_ had her cunt gripping you ever since.” 

Jaime was a man of his word; he didn’t make idle threats.  He had sworn a holy vow to kill Cersei should she ever speak of Brienne again.  Flashes of rage built up inside of him; Jaime snapped his one hand around Cersei’s wrist with an incredible force; he intended to give her an amethyst bracelet to match her fading necklace.   As her face peeled with fear, Jaime wanted to bash her skull in with the narrow window ledge propped up behind her.

Thoughts of Tommen had filled Jaime’s mind; thoughts of Brienne and her selfless death; thoughts of loving his sister when they were both young and innocent.  As his fingers gripped tighter around her wrist, Jaime stopped to think of the value of a holy vow…but then he paused; how can one keep a holy vow to someone who’s slowly turned into a complete stranger? 

Choosing not to end her life, choosing for the Gods to decide her fate instead, Jaime used his weight to yank Cersei down off her bed; he watched her slide onto the floor as the slick folds of her gown aided her graceless journey.  With her back towards him, she began to weep pitifully as she struggled to pull herself back up.  Disgusted by how much rage she could invoke in him, Jaime poured the contents of his goblet back into the wide mouth of the flagon.  Over the loud sounds of his sister’s sobbing, Jaime started to walk out of the Grey Tower forever.

Minutes passed.  Cersei eventually pulled herself from off the floor with her only foot.  As she sat back down upon her bed, vainly wiping the tears from off her face she looked back down to Jaime’s goblet and felt a weak smile grow across her teary face.

She was pleased to see that Jaime had chosen to drain his cup before he left.  

       

 

________________________________________________________________________

Hollow Hill; Six weeks ago:

 

 

Following the end of the great skirmish, Jaime had finally managed to pry the burlap sack from off his head. Hours passed; still, he did not hear from Brienne.

A dark silence filled the cave as a great storm approached.  Jaime wondered if his men camped at Pennytree were starting to search for him by now.  They could have used the hounds to track his scent.  Ser Addam Marbrand was away from Pennytree, searching for the Blackfish; it was possible the Lannister forces may have sought him out to enlist his help as well.

Rolls of thunder filled the stone hollow; the fire pit still burned hard…the outline of bodies that littered the floor of the cave had been outlined with thick shadows.  Behind a rock wall that was a dozen feet in front of him, Jaime could see only a pair of bloody boots linger in his vision.  The bodies of Lem, Stoneheart, Notch and Beardless dick were all within Jaime’s line of sight.  A great crash filled the air as a bolt of white lighting streaked the night sky; off in the mouth of the cavern, Jaime could see wild boars make their way into the mouth of the cave.  With a wet sound of snuffling and grunting Jaime watched the boars as they had started to feed.

In between flashes of lightning Jaime could see in perfect detail two wild boars as they feasting on the remains of the Brotherhood. Lem's face was ripped clean off with a sickening efficiency; milky white bone from his skull could be seen; the ghastly traces of his muscle, fat and tendons still lingering in tattered portions to his bloodied head. Powerful boar jaws could be seen as they masticated and nibbled, ripped and tore at flesh with all of the grace of a toddler feeding on porridge.

With another flash of violet-pink light slashing across the dark, Jaime could see one boar uncoil the oily black entrails of Stonehearts ravaged torso.  Jaime watched a third boar join the feast at Stoneheart's corpse; with a sickening crunch, the rotted head of Catelyn Stark was crushed between a great boars jaw like the brittle shell of a rotted nut.  

Holding back the sudden need to throw up, Jaime felt the skin on his left wrist turn bloodied in the vice of his iron manacles. Desperate to be free, desperate to find Brienne and to know that she was safe, he felt his resolves falter; his voice burned hot with bile in his throat as he screamed out for Brienne over the booming roar of thunder.

In another flash of lightning Jaime was horrified to see Lem's hand weakly raise out for help before a boar dug in its snout and tore into the soft flesh of his bloodied, pale stomach; within minutes Lem's desperate hand shivered and then finally dropped with a dead weight.  Another boar began to drag out the putrid corpse of Stoneheart into the blessedly obscure tall grass outside as a trail of dark blood and gore marked its path. An hour had passed; all of the boars had finally scattered.

Lightning crashed again as a dense rain started to pour out from the sky. Thunder rolled into Jaime's ears; he could feel his eardrums pound and his teeth chatter with the sharp clap of thunder as it exploded above him. Again, his voice burned with her name. His tongue strained, his throat grew tight, his jaw ached, his mouth turned dry. His voice grew hoarse and tired; still, he called out for Brienne.

Hours passed; the clatter of hailstone signaled an end to the storm while dark clouds finally began to melt away. Hail eventually thinned out into a fine, gentle rain; an hour later the first break of light was beginning to lighten the sky.  Ahead of Jaime he could see the pair of bloody boots sticking out from the edge of the jagged wall of rock; his view of who laid out before him had been obscured from him from where he remained.

It was no doubt a member of the Brotherhood.   

Off in a far corner Jaime could hear the bloody hacking of Ser Hyle Hunt; the man groaned out in a terrible pain; a flood of agony poured out of his wounded mouth from his semiconscious state.

Still, those boots did not move.

Far off in another corner of the cave, Jaime could hear a young voice ring out with a panicked 'hello;' the shivering, disembodied voice bounced down the cavern and over Jaime's straining ears. With a frantic hope, Jaime began to call out, hoping he had heard the voice of Brienne. Louder the voice grew; Jaime called back with relief, trying to guide Brienne back towards him. The closer the voice got, the less it sounded like that of Brienne. A cold fist of dread squeezed his heart tight.

_Those boots...they cannot be...They just can't be..._

The sound of feet falling within the cave stumbled against a rock and dirt floor with a labored pace; the person running had a serious limp. Jaime called out again; it was clear to him the person calling out for help was lost within the winding trails inside the cavern.

Hearing Jaime's voice, the sound of a limping child soon became clear; it was the voice of only a kid, a young boy. _Pod_. He soon approached the fire pit towards Jaime.  

Still, the boots that lay out in front of him did not move.

"Ser--my lady?  My lady?  My..."

The child with the limp, Pod, stopped suddenly behind the jagged wall of rock, near enough to Jaime so he could hear everything, but still, he could not see. The boy stood still, halting where the pair of boots now lay. Jaime's mouth turned dry as his eyes turned wide with terror. _What does the boy see?_

He could hear the boy fall to his knees. He could hear the boy start to panic as his breathing grew labored. He heard tears. He heard a small sob. _Why would he cry over his dead captor?_

Jaime wanted to scream, pull his arm out of his chains and finally see what was behind the jagged wall of rock. _It's just a member of the Brotherhood. Why is he crying over his captor?_

Curiously, the boy stopped crying; he stopped panicking; he seemed to have lain out his entire body on the cave floor now. _He's so quiet...why?_

A few stilted sobs, a constant sniffing of his nose, a faint murmur and then there was silence. Jaime strained against the impossible, deafening silence. Afraid to breath he strained, trying to listen to what the boy was doing. He heard nothing. And then, with a small, teary whimper, the boy had finally spoken.

"M-m-my lady."

Jaime's hand turned numb. He misheard him. He obviously heard the boy speak 'my lady' by some strange mistake; it was some cruel trick of sound from the acoustics in the cave. A moment later, the sound of metal keys clanging together grew close; he heard the limping boy walking towards Jaime from behind the rock wall.  His name was Pod, and he limped towards Jaime with weeping eyes and a gasping mouth; lips flushed red, his cheeks burned to a bright pink as the tears kept falling. _Why is he crying over his captor?_  

With a sickening dread Jaime studied Pod as he struggled to drop to one knee with a shallow wound on his right thigh. Jaime couldn't blink; the child wouldn't look at back at Jaime. With a twist of the keys, Jaime had been freed; for the first time in hours, Jaime wished he hadn't.  

His legs were numb, shivering under his own exhausted weight; his wrist was bloodied but he didn't know the pain; it only resided in his chest now. The boy, just a little kid, couldn't even lift his head, he wept too hard. A part of him made him think of Tommen; he wanted to comfort the child, he wanted to assure him everything would be alright. A part of him wanted the child to— _What?  To tell me that everything will be alright?_

Leaving the child to his weeping, Jaime staggered towards the clearing of the cave to find the source of the young lad's tears. A part of him knew what he would find; a greater part of him refused to believe that such a thing could ever happen.

Stepping around the rock wall was a slow and torturous moment… _Anything can be behind there.  She can still be with us...she can still be locked away in this horrid place somewhere...somewhere where it's warm and dry, hopefully._

As he finally stepped closer, it was too apparent what had happened: It was too obvious, too final and far too disturbing to comprehend.  

Those bloody boots _had_ belonged to Brienne.

It had been his greatest horror to know that for all of those long, torturous hours…hours when he struggled and battled, when he screamed and screamed out her name...all of this time, and she was already so close by. _Of course she was. She was always there for me._

What Jaime finally discovered was a gory fright; what he had _chosen_ to see was another thing entirely. His brave, stubborn, stupid wench was sprawled out onto her left side in her beautifully, inky blue armor. A dark stain ran from her hip; a curious, dark puddle had pooled around her right arm; her pale blonde hair had streaks of curious pinks and reds splattered throughout it.  But the worst of it had not yet been realized yet.    

There was a terrible gash that crossed into Brienne’s beautiful neck.  One of the most beautiful things about her, second to her eyes, was the graceful length of her long neck.  Her glorious neck now had a dark, gaping red mess smeared all across it.  The wound that had kissed her there was the wound from a blunted sword.  She had been executed with a blunted sword. 

Podrick Payne walked up behind Jaime.  Jaime looked back at the boy with disbelief.  He lowered his eyes back down to Brienne. 

To his horror, Jaime watched Brienne’s beautiful eyes flutter open.

Gasping in terror, Jaime quickly lowered his body close to Brienne’s face.  He couldn’t breathe.  There was no air left in him; he felt like he was choking on tears that hadn’t even formed yet.  Pod began to weep again with a new wave of tears.

“ _Brienne?  Brienne!  Please, it’s me.  It’s me.  Please, please!  I’m here, alright?  I’m right here._ ”

Jaime’s voice had awoken something violent and intense in Brienne.  With wide, flashing eyes, Jaime watched with horror as Brienne glanced around the cave with a frantic, terrorized speed.  In amazement Jaime began to hear faint words starting to form in a shudder from Brienne’s red filled mouth.

“The…brother…brr—the brotherhood…”  She was worried that the Brotherhood without Banner’s was still there.  Jaime shook his head ‘no’ as his head screamed with denial.

“No, no my lady. Those men will not hurt you anymore.”

Brienne muttered a faint groan in disapproval.  Laborious, she continued.

“ _You!  You.  Safe_?”  Brienne began to silently mouth out the word one more time, ‘ _Safe_?’  She wanted to know if Jaime was going to be safe.  Brienne, who was slowly bleeding to death from a mortal wound across her throat…and she wanted to know if Jaime was going to be safe.  He felt his heart crack under a heavy weight.

“ _Me_?  Brienne…I promise you—we are safe.  _I promise, I promise_.”

To his horror, to his delight, Jaime watched Brienne’s eyes flutter shut as a smile struggled across her sword slashed lips.  Jaime still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.  Feeling his hand prop up his body, he looked up at Pod with terrorized eyes.  Grabbing his shoulder, Jaime shook the lad until he had stopped his weeping. 

“Take my horse…the one tied to that tree over there!”  Jaime spotted Honor at a distance with some numb awareness.  “Ride hard, have my horse lead you east towards Pennytree _.  Do it now.  Go, go, go—GO NOW!_ ”  Nodding in pure weeping, Pod ran away from Jaime’s screaming face as he mounted Honor with trembling hands and shaking knees.  Not even bothering to look back at the boy, Jaime stared down at Brienne as he dragged his shaking fingers through his hair with a helpless gesture.  Brienne’s eyes slowly fluttered back open.  Jaime soon dropped down to the floor to lie on his stomach next to his wench.

His fingers finally twined through her hand.  Her fingers were so cold.  Jaime clasped his hand tight around them to try and keep them warm.  With a long silence, Jaime looked back at his friend; she had a strange smile cross her lips.

“We’re safe— _I’ll never lie to you_.  I promise.  Never.  I’ll never lie to you.  _I promise_.”  Jaime had been amazed to hear how tight his voice had sounded.  Watching her fight to move her ruined lips, Brienne struggled to speak.

“I lied.  I hurt…you.  I—I lied to y-you.”  Fat tears filled her big blue eyes.  They rolled from the side of her eye, across the bridge of her broken nose and dripped down onto the floor into a pool of growing blood.  Jaime didn’t notice until then that there was a slow trickle of blood dripping out of her left nostril.  Swallowing past a thick tongue, Jaime used the sleeve of his Kingsguard shirt to wipe the blood away from her face.  He twined his fingers back into hers.

“I’ve lied to you too.  I’ve lied—about everything.  You… _you have nothing to apologize for_ , Brienne.  _Nothing._  Alright?  Hmmm?”  Brienne never accepted Jaime’s forgiveness…the pain she knew from betraying was still too much.  The dark pull of death had begun to strip away most of her childish fears.

“Hold…h-h-hand?” 

Jaime’s face grew still.  He glanced back down to see his fingers twine into hers.  She could not tell he was already holding her hand.  Jaime spoke with a halting voice.

“You…can’t feel my hand?” 

Brienne silently mouthed out the word ‘no.’ Tears filled Jaime’s eyes.

“Can you feel your legs?”  He didn’t know why he asked it; he already knew the answer.

Again, she silently mouthed out the word ‘no’ with a small wheeze that bubbled from her throat.

Somehow the sword had left her paralyzed, but she still had retained the ability to breathe and speak.   His tears finally fell.  Jaime wrapped his fingers tighter into Brienne’s.  He squeezed with all of his strength.  She still did not feel a thing.

For a long time, the two had held hands while Jaime felt slow tears slide down his face.  Hardly blinking, Brienne kept her eyes firmly on his.  On occasion she’d smile at Jaime with a strange knowing.  His fingers were trembling, sweating and white; he still would not let go of Brienne.

“Pr-p-p-promise…my father…don’t tell…d-d-don’t tell him how—how I-I…”

“Don’t say it… _please Brienne_.  _Please. Please stay with me.  Don't leave me here alone_ _.”_ His voice started to turn thin and high, curling with keening tears. _“You can’t_.”

Her eyes fell shut; Jaime had gasped.  With a fresh wheeze from the hole in her throat, Brienne opened her eyes again.  She tried to smile with a bloody mouth.  Jaime smiled back with his tears.  She tried to speak again.

“Oath…Oathh k-keeper.”

Staring at her with confusion, Jaime realized she was asking for her sword.  Reluctantly, he got up on his knees to search for her blade.  On the other side of the fire pit, Jaime found the Valeryian sword glinting in the dying flames; Brienne’s great shadow had mostly obscured its presence.

Returning back to her side, he held the sword tight as he lied back down.  Fumbling with her fingers, he wrapped her cold hand around the hilt of the blade as he wrapped his around her fingers with a loving, desperate grasp on her life.

“Nooo.”  Brienne whispered.  Again, she mouthed the word ‘no.’ Confused, Jaime grasped his hand tighter around hers.

“You…you.  Oathkeeper.”  She smiled.  Once he understood her, Jaime’s face folded into blistering tears.

Had she the ability, she would have finally ran her fingers through his hair as she always wanted to.  Instead she closed her eyes with her own tears as well.

“Mercy.”

He opened his eyes.  His lips trembled without comprehension.  He should have.  He should have given her the gift of mercy; an honorable death, but…he was a selfish man; he wanted more time with her.

“M-mercy.”

Stroking her fingers beneath his hand, Jaime eventually removed Oathkeeper from her icy grip.  With a choked sob, Jaime pulled his body from off the floor with her blade still in his hand.  His golden fist was still outside, somewhere, buried beneath the pile of his discarded Kingsguard armor.  He looked down at Brienne and felt his face fall with duty.  He saw her eyes flutter, he saw her wide chest rise and fall.  He looked away.  He was about to end her beautiful life.

From the mouth of the cave, above the bodies that had fallen to the ground like scattered leaves, Jaime watched the world outside the cavern and saw that the entire wilderness surrounding Hollow Hill was now glazed with thick ice.  Tall evergreen trees bowed so low to Jaime, it was as if they were already in mourning of Brienne.  Bare tree branches now clicked together in the wind as a thick glazing of ice clacked together from each tender branch.  The fields had become treacherous sheets of pale blue ice; all of the sky had fallen into a grey-white haze of a winter’s hell.  High up above, a family of ravens had called down to Jaime.  They pecked and cawed, rolled with clicking quarks; all of them were perched precariously upon the frozen tree branches that surrounded the hollow hill.  The world fell into an eerie silence and Jaime could hear his breath gasp in soft, struggling tears.  And all at once, the wings of the ravens had erupted, forming together a dark banner of black dread; all the inky birds had left the trees and taken to the sky with a great rapidity.

Slowly, Jaime turned back around.

A leaden weight, heavy and devastating, ensnared itself onto the interior of Jaime's rib cage; the oppressive burden sagged and quickly smothered his lungs.  He couldn't breathe...his heart was slowly being crushed, and there was nothing he could do to ease this terrible, irreparable ache.

He stood there for what felt like hours. He did not dare move. _She could be resting...she could be sleeping._ But the denial was short lived:

Brienne never slept with her baby blues wide open.

Brienne no longer breathed.

Still he lingered, numb and still, waiting for her to blink; he waited for her wide chest to rise and fall.  It was too still. Incredulous, hollowed out with fear, Jaime whispered her beautiful name.

" _Brienne_?"

Still, she did not move. Her eyes, wide and astonished, now stared straight through Jaime, fixed on some beautiful, distant point where the knights were always chivalrous, the maidens were all beautiful and the land was always green with summer.

The leaden weight fixed inside of Jaime's ribs had finally collapsed under its impossible force.  A hard breath left his body with a shuddering power as his face grew slack and his mouth fell open with shock. A piercing, rusted hook ripped through the tender flesh of Jaime's crumbling heart.

Like a small child, he took one step forward. He knew her eyes wouldn't flutter back to life; he knew she wouldn't wake from this sleep.

Another step forward...and he finally knew.

Horrified with an incalculable pain, Jaime felt his only hand cover his gaping mouth as if he tried to scream but found no voice.  His eyes grew wide, wider than Brienne's; a cold sweat flashed across his skin, his fingers began to grow numb and started to shiver.

" _Brienne_..."

His watery voice trembled as his face crumbled with devastation. His eyebrows, raised high on his forehead, began to stitch together with doubt; his forehead, furrowed and red, started to knit together with thin folds with a terrible knowing.

He felt the tears trail down his neck before he realized he had been crying again.

Stumbling like a drunkard, his knees turned loose and folded easily at the side of Brienne's still body. He fell with no cares; he did not feel the hard slam of earth beneath his knees, he did not notice how his body collapsed onto the floor with such staggering force; he did not hear Oathkeeper rattle to the floor.

Her dark blood, pooled into a wide puddle beneath her neck, started to cool. Exhausted with failure, Jaime leaned his body over onto his side and ran his only hand through her matted, blood streaked hair. He clenched and unclenched his fingers into her matted hair with the slow rhythm of a dying heartbeat.

He always wanted to touch those coarse hair strands; he finally did.

He wanted to gently touch the horrible wound on her cheek since he was reunited with her at Pennytree; he finally did.

He wanted to say so much; his chest was shredded in pain.

He wanted to tell her how he prayed for her as he stood guard at his father's vigil; he wanted to say he longs for the love of an innocent woman; he wanted to tell her how often he thought of her while she was away; he wanted to say he defended her honor at Harrenhal; he wanted to say he felt a need to look for her in the Riverlands, that he hoped to see her again in the Riverlands; he wanted to tell her he imagined her kisses, far longer than a man of honor should have; he wanted to say he once dreamed of her gentle touches in a bathtub they had once shared together; he wanted to tell her that being reunited with her again made him feel so alive, so wanted.

He couldn’t.  He was crying too hard.  

Burned with grief, frozen with denial, Jaime found the courage to lift Brienne's head and placed it onto one of his folded legs. He tried to ignore the sickening flop of her head as it somehow remained bound to her wounded neck. Resting her pale blonde hair across his thighs, he cradled her homely, familiar face with his single hand and felt hard tears start anew.  It wasn’t until then did he realize that she had only lived for as long as she had for only one chance to say ‘goodbye.’

Her sightless gaze lingered still. Jaime mourned her with a near silent weeping that choked his breath.  He knew at that moment that once he closed her beautiful, brilliant eyes, he would never get to see them again.  He wept with his soul; his tears had been so overwhelming the only sound he could make was a quivering, muted sob--there was no voice left for him to speak.  There were no words left for him to say.

Eventually, Pod would return with the Lannister host to retrieve their Lord Commander. 

Eventually, Jaime’s men would collect his Kingsguard armor and his golden hand scattered in front of the cave; they would help pour him back into his hollow shell of duty to conceal Brienne’s blood on his white clothes.

Eventually, Jaime would give Brienne a single kiss and wish her farewell.

There was only one last thing he wanted to say; he wept too hard to form any actual words.  He was left to think of all of the things he wished to say to her.  One last thought reverberated in his pounding head; it was the only thing he wished he could have said to her but never did:

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

 

_____________________________________________________________________ 

The Present; The Red Keep:

 

From her corner of the royal courtyard, Brienne adjusted the fasteners to her great helm one final time.  Septon Meribald, along with the remaining septons droned on in a fervent prayer to the Seven, thanking the Gods for blessing Brienne with their favor.  Though she was grateful, the Maid no longer felt compelled to receive the favor of the Gods; her favor was already tucked inside of her mail shirt beneath her armor.

Seated from a high balcony overlooking the courtyard, Brienne saw members of court all wait patiently as the crowds on the ground below started cheering with excitement.  Brienne no longer thought of the crowds, she was too focused now to even hear their chants and cheers.

High above, the overcast sunlight started to fade under thick clouds.  The air carried with it the scent of an approaching snowfall.  Off in the corners, great torches were lit should the snowfall obscure the daylight too soon.  In the royal box, mounted above the other high ranking members of court, the seat to the king was left vacant.  Next to it, on a velvet cushion made of green and gold, Brienne saw him.

It was Jaime.

His beard was fuller, his golden hair seemed longer now; his skin was pale and his green eyes burned with a solemn, distant gaze.  He was staring at her; the champion for the Faith.

In spite of her fears, Brienne started to smile beneath her black helmet; she felt her first real joy in weeks.  With all of her heart she wanted to take off her great helm and reveal herself to Jaime.  But it was the not knowing what he would do, how he would react, what he would say that prevented her now. 

Beneath the marble balcony of the court, Cersei Lannister was seated in her corner wearing a red silk gown with stunning rubies sewn into the bodice of her dress.  A golden lion pelt was luxuriously draped around her small shoulders with large emerald stones studding the vacant eyes of the lion’s head; the rubies in her dress caught the light and made the former queen look like a peculiar abstraction of beauty; Brienne was surprised to see that she her golden hair had been clipped short to her head.  With an almost sardonic grin to herself, Brienne realized with some absurdity that her hair now was longer than the former queen regent.  Behind Cersei, a great door was swept wide open.  From it approached a creature, an abundant, overwhelming giant whose height reached eight feet.

Ser Robert Strong.

A gasp fell from the crowds.  Somewhere on the courtyard, a small child started to cry; horses nearby started to whicker and stamp their hooves with unease.  The resurrected giant walked with a pounding manner; his white Kingsguard armor creaked and sighed under a laborious weight.  The armor was absurdly heavy; no mortal man could ever wear armor that thick without being smothered beneath it.  Cersei Lannister’s head rose with pride; she had felt triumphant already.

From above Jaime Lannister stood up from his seat to look down upon Ser Robert Strong.  Clearly this had been the first time Jaime had ever seen the man.  With a stricken face, slack with shock, the regent was horrified to realize how the creaking giant now seemed to dwarf the champion in black.  In between shallow breaths, Brienne could hear the worried mutters of the septons behind her.  At the center of the courtyard, a trusted partner to the High Sparrow made his way to the center of the battleground.  With Ser Robert height soaring, the septon looked only like a small child in his dark shadow.  Looking towards the Brienne  with a slight nod, the older man gestured for the Faith’s champion to step into the courtyard. 

Brienne looked down at her feet and breathed.  Anxiety would not serve her well; she fought hard to collect her thoughts as she watched Jaime eventually take his seat again with worry.  Around his shoulders Jaime wore a thick black cloak with a curious silver and gold pelt wrapped around him.

_It almost looked like…_

Brienne raised her foot hesitantly onto the first step that led up to the raised courtyard.  She now had to make a choice; today, she would either die with honor…or she could fight for her life, no matter what the outcome may be.  Without looking up at Jaime, Brienne had finally made up her choice:

_I am the daughter of fire...the bride of ice._

_A fire is a blessing; it is also a curse._

_Its power is all consuming; it cleanses the world of its rot._

_It clears the path to a new beginning._

_I may have been the daughter of death...but that girl is buried now._

_I'm the daughter of fire... I am a woman born; I'm free to choose anything..._

_...I choose life._

Brienne made her way up to the courtyard to greet Ser Robert Strong. 

The crowd erupted into cheers like the crash of a deafening thunder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Cecilia is a patron saint in the Catholic faith. Her tale tells the story of a woman who died, slowly, from a botched execution.  
> She had suffered three blows to the neck and she survived for three days...I couldn't do that to Brienne.
> 
> This was absolutely the hardest thing I've ever written. It's my greatest joy to tell you, it only gets better for our two heroes,  
> from here on out. Thank you for your patience; I wish I had published this on Wednesday. It took me much longer than I expected.


	12. The Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mountain greets the flame; Jaime says hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kinds words and incredible support. I am moved and incredibly grateful.
> 
> Things are starting to finally look up for these two.

The title for this chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8496923-The-Question-by-Pablo-Neruda) if you're interested.

 

 

The crowd had grown anxious while the septon made his blessings upon the royal courtyard.  Praying to the Seven to pass fair judgement on the accused was become a tedious affair; Jaime was grateful for the calm before the storm.  Slouched back into his chair, he casually glanced at the empty seat placed to his left for the little king; he knew it would be best for Tommen not to witness this, but still, Jaime wondered how his son was fairing with his septa.  Clenching his jaw with roiling concern, Jaime watched the champions carefully as the septon continued his prayers.

Ser Robert Strong was a beast.  There were no other kind words for Jaime to consider.  He recalled some of the ridiculous stories he had heard from other members of the Kingsguard about Ser Robert.  Ludicrous rumors; rumors about how Ser Robert had conveniently taken a vow of silence; everyone claimed that no one had ever seen his sleep, eat, use the privy or make a sound.  One member of the Goldcloaks swore to Jaime that he had spent time with Ser Robert; this had been before Cersei sent Ser Robert away to Casterly to escort Uncle Kevan’s remains back to the Rock.  The Goldcloak swore with wide eyes and a faint stutter that not once did he hear Ser Robert Strong breathe inside of his great helm.  Glancing down at the monstrosity garnered in white Kingsguard plate, Jaime began to sincerely entertain the idea of how many of those rumors were actually true.

Before the septon had finish, Jaime was startled to find Ser Selwyn of Tarth had taken the other seat next to his right.  The lord was kind enough to spend time with Tommen that afternoon, shortly before the trial had begun; the kindly lord made every effort to calm his son with tales of a band of merciless pirates that once lived in a small cove on Tarth.  Though Tommen seemed engaged with the Evenstar’s stories, Jaime could see how distracted the little king was; absentmindedly petting his cats while he was always glancing around him, searching as if he were expecting for something to sneak upon him and spirit him away.  

“Forgive me, Ser.  His Grace has a very keen mind for stories about mutiny.”  Jaime distractedly nodded his head at Selwyn with a tight smile; the septon’s ringing voice bounced throughout the courtyard and reverberated among the crowds as the sound of Jaime’s own heartbeat started to pound in his ears.

“By the Seven... _that_ is Ser Robert?”  Jaime nodded again, gravely.  Selwyn’s face grew tight with an ill scowl once he made himself more settled in his chair.  Feeling anxious, Jaime sat closer to the edge of his seat once the blessing had been completed; he clenched his hand open and shut, making it into a tight fist.  A great cheer echoed throughout the courtyard.  

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Brienne had some time to assess her opponent with a cool eye as the septon had droned on about ‘justice’ and ‘honor’.  To Brienne, those words were becoming juvenile phrases that romanticized the cost of war to green boys always anxious to fight; they were just pretty lyrics used in songs for swooning maidens.  The Maid had paid her price to serve both ‘honor’ and ‘justice.’  She too was once a silly maiden who sighed over the songs of battle; she too was once a green girl that had been swept up to the romantic call of war.  

Far too often she had seen the blood and tears of the innocent and the weak, slaughtered and manhandled like cattle, only for the passing amusement of broken men.  She had seen soldiers and decent men, wounded and slowly dying on the field of battle; she had seen them gutted and stripped like half-dressed field kills by some cruel and drunken hunting party; how they would whimper and cry out for mercy.  

Where was all of the justice in that?  And what of honor?  Where were those righteous conceits amongst all of the suffering and pointless bloodshed she had to witness?

Once the blessing had ended the crackle of cheers and hollering commenced.  Brienne felt her face grow firm with a hard acceptance; she would win; she would survive this day.

Ser Robert’s began to stagger towards Brienne as he made his first, clamoring steps towards the center of the courtyard; Brienne shuddered as she felt a slight impact tremor from the ground beneath her.  The crown’s champion rattled in heavy plate; with a high squeal of creaking armor, Ser Robert swung a great sword towards Brienne; her body quickly twisted to the side.  He missed.

The armor creaked again as he used the momentum from his swing and poured it into a great counter swing; Brienne lowered her head and ducked into the opposite direction.  The crowds cheered.  

 _By the Gods, he is a true monster._    

Sweeping behind his body, Brienne felt a slight thrill to realize that for once she had a tactical advantage to being the smaller opponent. Her childhood master-at-arms, Ser Goodwin, spoke to her now, reminding to spare her energy.  Although she was now the smaller of the two and Ser Robert had no idea that she was a woman, Brienne knew there would be no slowing down from him; there would be no outrage as well.  The greatest advantage Brienne now had over Ser Robert was her ability to maneuver and remain spry.  Ser Robert was doddering in his great suit of armor; every turn of his body seemed lethargic with heavy movements.  

Ser Robert swung his great sword down towards Brienne again; he missed.  With a great clash of splintering stone blasting beneath her feet, Brienne watched as Ser Robert struggled to extract his great sword from the impact he left on the courtyard floor.  She swung at his head; there was a dull clang. His helmet did not move.  His great helm was fixed onto his armor.

_That is strange._

As the splintered stone beneath his feet gave way to his sword from the shattered courtyard floor, Brienne maneuvered around him again, this time from behind as she guided her sword to seek out any creases between his armor.  With relief, she spied a vulnerable spot as she made her turn.   _The back of his knee!_  Feeling a thrill, Brienne sank the pierce of her blade into Ser Robert’s bend of the knee.  The crowds’ hollered with joy.

It was baffling for all to see that Ser Robert did not react in any way.  Confused sounds were made from the crowd as Brienne extracted her sword again, only to pull back her blade with a coating of thick, black fluid.   _His blood._ A chill ran through her; she circled Ser Robert again.  Again, he labored under his impressive armor.  

Flicking her blade down towards Ser Robert, Brienne watched drops of his black blood spray across the white enamel of his Kingsguard armor.  It was a peculiar sight to behold; the likes of him wearing the most revered plate of ‘honor’ in the seven kingdoms.  

_Jaime never deserved to be called a ‘monster.’  That word was created for Ser Robert alone._

As Brienne watched Ser Robert raise his great sword up over his head, Brienne tucked and rolled between his open legs.  She didn’t dare cross her sword against his swinging, massive sword; it would have been over soon before she knew it.  

Once more, Brienne attacked her opponent from behind; she tried to thrust her blade through the armor but quickly decided against it; she felt the dense plate beneath the hollow clang of her sword.  Trying to pierce him with this sword...it would have been easier for her to tear through a castle wall with a wooden spoon.  Her only hope of a victory was to pierce her opponent at the weakest points between his armor. She swung at the back of his knees with another thick slash; the sword bit into a revolting slush of black blood and tendons.

Still, he did not fall.

From the sweeping force of her controlled swing, Brienne kneeled to the courtyard floor and fell into a defensive posture; bowing with her chin tucked up to one raised knee.  She kept her head set low, close to her body.

Ser Robert twisted back around and used his great force to swing his sword.  With an exact angle, Ser Robert landed his blade against Brienne's black helmet; she lowered her head just at the right moment. He did not remove her head from her body.

He knocked off her helmet instead.

 

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Though the crowds below cheered and booed wildly; the conduct among the noble elite was far more reserved.  Jaime was always puzzled by anyone's preferences for noble seating; granted, every comfort had been offered up to him in this privileged row, he still couldn't take part of the enthusiasm he shared with the rest of the crowd. Too many pinched faces surrounded him, trying desperately to appear remote and austere.  It was a stifling experience, to feel so much and to be forced by decorum not to express any of it.

The fight was swift, even though Ser Robert struggled still under his constricting armor. Even Jaime felt the custom made armor had been an absurd choice; to fight is to remain flexible, not impenetrable and lumbering.  

_More isn't always better; sometimes 'more' becomes a liability._

As the Faith's champion rolled and dodged the monster's heavy blows, Jaime considered him and wondered if he ever fought with him before. There was something particular about the swing of his sword and the delicate swiftness of his footwork; it all felt somehow familiar.

Leaning closer to the edge of his seat, Jaime saw the champion in black strike a calculating blow to the back of Ser Robert’s knee. Oddly enough, Jaime felt a true relief.

As the crowds below cheered, Jaime swallowed back a grunt of satisfaction while his fist tightened with enthusiasm.  It felt good to see a worthy battle.

A strange peel of gasps followed a chilling silence. The champion in black pulled out his sword from the back of Ser Robert's knee; he did not fall. Instead, a slick puddle of black blood began to appear while Ser Robert failed to respond to such a devastating wound.  Words of outrage and horror erupted from the crowds below; some people were hissing out words such as 'witchcraft,' 'dark arts,' and 'black magic,' scandalizing the courtyard with an outrage.  In spite of this, the Faith's champion continued to fight on.

Every swing and counter swing was met with swift footwork from the champion in black.

_That footwork.  It almost looks like..._

Something kept gnawing at the back of Jaime's mind; like the phantom trail of a flea crawling at the back of his head, Jaime tried to ignore the nagging feeling, but still, it persisted. With eyebrows creased and a thin grimace stitched across his features, Jaime watched the champion in black make another stunning swipe at the back of Ser Roberts’s knees. Still, there was no response by him.

With a breath caught high in his chest, Jaime followed Ser Robert's great sword as it screamed a pathway through the dry winter air. To his horror, Jaime saw the blade make close contact to the opponent's helmet. With swift timing, he tucked his head even closer to his chest. With relief, Ser Robert did not behead the champion.

Instead, he knocked his black helm off.

Another gasp filled the audience. The champion was not a man.

It was a woman.

 

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To have her head exposed was a startling blow to Brienne's confidence as a champion. She had to remain concealed, at all costs. Should Jaime recognize her...should he watch her die a second time...? It was unthinkable.

Glancing to her side, Brienne could see there would be no point into trying to recover her helm; Ser Robert's thundering blade shattered the steel like a pane of brittle glass. She could feel a trail of blood trying to fall into her eyes; the blow from his sword gouged a wound in her forehead. By the rules for a trial by combat, a champion could have their weapon or their helm replaced should it be destroyed before a victor had been distinguished. Brienne had to circle all the way back towards her side of the courtyard; it would be only then Brienne could safely receive a new helm to replace her own.

The Maid had heard startled gasps from the crowd once her face had been exposed; it was her greatest hope to conceal her face once more before Jaime could distinguish that it was her.

Circling Ser Robert was a terrifying, methodical turn about the courtyard; his steady gaze lingered on her face. Brienne couldn't tell if her reveal as a woman was a startling find or if Ser Robert had ever even noticed at all.

Every step off to the side with her sword was one step closer to the comfort towards her corner of the courtyard.  Some in the audience started to watch the turn around the yard with an eerie gaze. With a hard swing from Ser Robert, Brienne was able to deflect a  blow by grazing her blade against the sharp edge of Ser Robert's.  A dazzling spray of sparks popped and danced off the kissing blades; Brienne could feel how close his blade came to her face.  Just a few steps closer and she would be able to receive her new helm.

Off in the far corner of her eye, she could see him. Jaime had raced down to the floor of the audience to look closer at her.

Dodging another blow that struck hard and landed firm into the ground, Brienne stumbled to the floor near the septons that waited to hand her off a new helm. As Ser Robert struggled yet again to extract his blade from the shattered stones of the floor beneath them, Brienne heard a piercing call shatter the silence like a crack of thunder.

**_  
_**

 

**_"Brienne!"_ **

 

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Madness possessed him; he was certain of it now.

In denial of such a vision, Jaime shot up from his chair to look upon the Faith’s champion with certainty.

_I'm blind with madness.  It's not possible..._

Lord Selwyn looked up at Jaime with worry; he didn't dare say a thing.  It was fortunate Selwyn's eyes were older; he didn't want the good lord to taste the bitter dregs of a false hope if it wasn’t his daughter.  He felt rude for ignoring Selwyn's pleas, but he had been consumed with obsession. He needed to be certain.

Pushing his way through the noble crowds, Jaime ignored their snubbed faces and outraged glares.

_These gilded cunts have no idea what it’s like to be truly offended._

Two Lannister guards quickly followed Jaime in his staggering wake. Against their better pleas, Jaime ignored his men as they begged him not to enter the assembly on the floor grounds; they were not properly secured to have the nobility amongst them. Jaime didn't care; he could have wandered into a clotted nest of vipers, he still would have descended.  

Never keeping his eyes away from Brienne, or who he imagined to be Brienne, Jaime followed the careful moves of the two fighters circling one another with a dry mouth and unblinking eyes.

_This is insanity. I've become a devout servant to lunacy._

Ser Robert's blade bit into the paver stones of the courtyard with a spray of dust and splintering rocks that flew up from between his feet. The Faith's champion fell hard to the ground; Ser Robert struggled with extracting his blade.

The shock of pale blonde hair could have belonged to some other person. Their stunning blue eyes may have belonged to another person as well. But to combine those two features together with a distinctive scar across her left cheek…it was incalculable; there were no other possibilities left in this entire world.

_By the grace of the Seven..._

His voice hollered out her name before he even knew he spoken the words.

 

 

 **_"_ ** **_Brienne!"_ **

 

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Her eyes landed onto his. She had been discovered.  It was too late. She had to win now; she was left with no other choice.

Sweeping over towards Septon Meribald, she saw him fumbled with a leather satchel. From out of the bag he removed a singular helm.  It was bright steel with pointed ears, a snarling mouth and fang baring teeth. It was Sandor Clegane's distinctive helm.  The Hound’s helm.

Baffled by this offering, Brienne had no time to ask questions as she quickly placed the helmet over her bleeding head. Off to her right, she could see Jaime wander his way towards the septon's in the Faith's corner. Behind Ser Robert, Brienne could see the flashing red silk of queen Cersei as she tried to stagger into a partially standing position; Brienne could see outrage marring the former queen’s pretty face.

Faintly, she could hear Jaime speak to Septon Maribald behind her.  Brienne wished Jaime could join her on the courtyard to fight Ser Robert.  She knew he couldn’t; to violate such rules...Brienne would have been immediately disqualified, granting Cersei an instant victory for her trial.

Ser Robert had become deadly quiet.

No longer hearing the laborious creaks of his burdensome Kingsguard armor, Brienne felt a cold flash of dread fall upon her as she saw Ser Robert recognize his brother's helmet on Brienne. With a still pose, all was silent...until a rage started to build like a gale.  A sharp, piercing crease of steel against steel cracked the air; Ser Robert rose up his sword with outrage; in a blind fury he raise up his great sword yet again.

Brienne had become someone who felt oddly comfortable with this type of anger; it was the familiar disgust of a man who was forced to battle against a woman.  But this time, it was not her gender that gave Ser Robert his offences; this time it was Sandor Clegane’s helmet that did.

Slamming the visor shut on the Hound's helm, Brienne felt a new surge of confidence as Ser Robert Strong began to over exert his own strength, throwing his entire weight into a pummeling swing. Brienne held her ground and steadied herself; she was going to use his own rage and strength against him.

Holding her sword up high, Brienne could hear Jaime encouraging her, offering up his praise, telling her to conserve her strength until the last moment before Robert's attack. Brienne felt her heart sing as Jaime's warm voice filled her with the possibility of surviving another day.  She watched Ser Robert's swinging arch fall into a heavy, hazardous angle to the right.  

With a hard swipe to left, the returning momentum of the opposite swing pulled Ser Robert's body into a twisted form that left him exposed for an attack. Brienne took her chance then; she shoved her sword deep into the visor slit of Ser Robert's helmet.

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers; Brienne felt a strange disquiet; the sword slid into her opponent’s helmet far too easily. There should have been pressure as she landed her blade deep into his face. She should have seen a waterfall of black blood fall from the creases of his helm.  None of those things had happened. Instead, Ser Robert paused only for a moment as her sword skewered his helmet.

She had become terrified of this abomination; this creature had no head.  Crowds on the floor and the nobility alike all stood to their feet with fear and trepidation as they watched the crown's opponent return to his fighting as though there was nothing wrong. Brienne could hear members closest to the fighting start to scatter off like roaches under candlelight.  No one could blame them; Brienne would have run too if she was unarmed, unarmored or craven.

Watching Ser Robert try to remove Brienne's blade from his own helm looked like an absurd nightmare come to life. As he bashed around like a maid trying to chase a bee from her face, Brienne looked back once she heard Jaime call out to her in a clear, hollering voice. From his side, bound to his waist, Jaime removed the sweet song of Valeryian steel from a Lannister red scabbard.  

 _Oathkeeper_.  

Tears of relief flooded her eyes; blinking them back without a moment to cherish them, Brienne followed the glint of Oathkeeper as it caught the daylight; it slid across the stone floor of the courtyard with a bright clatter.  Ser Robert still struggled to remove the blade from his helm.

Offering up a quick prayer to the Warrior, Brienne charged up towards Ser Robert and felt the sweet sound of Oathkeeper slice the wind just as her first blow against him landed onto the thick, white enamel of his Kingsguard armor.  Oathkeeper bit into his steel and sank into Ser Robert's plate. It was a relief.

The blade pulled back smooth, carving out a chunk of Ser Robert's torso like warm butter.  

A sluggish splatter of black blood oozed from his wound; a putrid smell like rotted oysters came streaming out of it. Cheers were heard in every direction; again she made a smooth, controlled blow with her blade; Oathkeeper bit into the upper arm of Ser Robert.

A bright screech of metal against metal filled the cold, winter air. A light snowfall had started to fall. The lower portion of Ser Robert's left arm was sliced clean off. A coagulated spray of black blood obscured the pristine snowfall beneath them. A sickly pale flesh, not unlike Stoneheart's own pallor, had been exposed. Ser Robert's skin was so pale it almost looked blue. Thick, black veins spider webbed beneath his skin. Brienne was unveiling to the world a living horror with every stroke she made.

Still, he did not stop fighting.

Feeling gratitude Oathkeeper was in her hands, Brienne decided to show the world what a true monster was set forth upon the world of the living. If this abomination could be exposed as the horrible creation that he was, there would be no way the population of King's Landing would abide by the crown's support of allowing these monstrosities to proliferate. Searching around her, Brienne made a bold decision.

As the snowfall continued to pummel the courtyard, Brienne made a sharp left and ran against the outer perimeter.  Following her intended pathway, the people on the ground started to clear far away as they soon realized that Ser Robert would soon follow the Maid's path.

Glancing behind her, Brienne could see Ser Robert begin to make his way towards her. Slamming his great weight onto the ground beneath them, Brienne climb a steep wall that held a burning torch nearby. He was coming closer...closer still.   _Come on. Come on!_  

Mounted up high above him, Brienne watched Ser Robert charge at the wall she had been standing on. With her first sword still lodged into his helm, Brienne lifted a small prayer to the Seven just as his thundering pace approached closer to her. _Just a few more feet...please.  Please..._

As the creaking Kingsguard armor grew louder, Brienne felt her arm grow strong with a strange warmth that radiated; it started to spread from her fingers all the way down to her shoulder. It was as if her sword arm was fire made flesh. Ser Robert descended upon the wall and Brienne finally swung. With an impossible strength she never knew she could possess, she felt Oathkeeper land through the thick plated armor of Ser Robert's great helm and slide all the way through.  

The blow was a success: His helmet had fallen clean off his body. Before anyone could cheer, all were horrified to realize that Ser Robert still moved without a head. They were terrified to realize that no head rolled out of the skewered helmet.  Crowds that gathered scattered away from the fighting and clustered towards the opposite direction as they screamed out in horror.   

Standing still as if he did not suffer a blow, Ser Robert swung his blade towards Brienne as it sank through the bricks of the wall she stood on. Before she jumped off the ledge, she dismounted the torch that burned next to her.

Snowflakes turned into a shower.  As Ser Robert tried to recover from his devastating blow against the wall he fell on, Brienne approached him from behind and dropped the flaming torch into Robert Strong's armor. Stepping away quickly, Brienne stood back from a distance with Oathkeeper at the ready, eagerly waiting to land another blow should he continue to fight.

In the swirling torrent of snowfall, Brienne stayed still as she watched a fresh horror unfold before her. With hot flames feeding into the dead flesh contained within the heavy Kingsguard armor, Ser Robert's headless body thrashed and stumbled around as bright yellow and blue flames began to lick out from the creases of the armor. Overwhelmed by this onslaught, the burning giant began to kneel, leaning his only hand onto the snowy ground beneath him.

A strange wave of pity overcame Brienne. Thick, bilious smoke started to puff out of the neck of Ser Robert.

_Strange; it almost looks like he's breathing._

Approaching the smoldering beast, Brienne could hear a strange groan of tortured sounds emanating from the oily black smoke of his body. Crunching snow started to crease beneath her feet; every step brought her closer to Ser Robert. His unearthly groaning continued as his body started to collapse under the pressing armor around him. Locating the heart, Brienne pierced Oathkeeper upon the monster's back and sliced down with an exhausted groan of finality.

She watched his hulking form shiver under her blade. Watching him collapse one final time, Brienne slowly pulled Oathkeeper out of Robert's back as thick, black blood started to smolder with bright yellow flames on Valeryian steel. Flicking her sword downwards in the air one final time, Brienne sprayed black blood everywhere, gratefully extinguishing the flame lit upon her sword.  Jaime looked at her through the haze of snowfall and black smoke. He smiled at her.

She smiled in return.

 

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Her breathing was labored; thin, wheezing, gasping in perfect sync with the hopping strike of her heartbeat; every breath taken in felt like a shallow scrape against her chest. The taste of blood filled Brienne's panting mouth. 

Following the victory, the septons had quickly escorted Brienne back to her corner, leading her down to the armory located beneath the courtyard.  Helping her pry off her matte black armor, Brienne felt her hands shake with adrenaline as she absorbed the fact that it was finally over.

She had won.

But why did she somehow feel that she still lost?

Winning the trial against Cersei’s champion proved to all that would pass judgement that she was found to be guilty in the eyes of the gods.  It was a relief, but to understand that she had directly led to the coming death of Jaime’s sister, the mother of his children, made Brienne feel faint with comprehension. 

Prying the dented metal plate from her body, removing the heavy mail from her clothes, Brienne felt a huge spiral of doubt uncoil from her heart; that was until she heard Jaime enter the armory.

“I would have a moment alone with Brienne.”

Jaime’s voice roared in the stifling quiet of the room.  Amongst the racks of countless swords, shields, spears and armor, his words had become the most cutting; the most unsettling. 

Failing to find a reason to disobey the regent to the king, all of the septons, including Septon Meribald, promptly filed out of the room.  The kindly septon offered up a faint smile up towards Brienne before he left.

She was now alone with him; alive, and mostly unharmed.

 

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He stood there mute; grave, with countless doubts.  He was too fearful to breathe; he was terrified he'd finally gone mad from his grief for Brienne. He watched her with unblinking eyes; he became too thoughtful, too nervous; it was almost petrifying to consider that this was only another one of his tortured dreams. To lose her once, only then to realize what she had meant to him was one hell; but to have her returned to him with the threat of her death, yet again, would have been seven hells worth of torture for him.

Jaime finally caught a hold of his breath; it had felt like he'd been holding it since the day she died. He felt manic with wanting; he was sick with relief.  With limbs made of water he took his first, hesitant steps towards her; she slowly crossed the room to meet him the rest of the way.

With a wall of doubt separating them, Jaime reached out to her with his only hand and dared to touch her.  Brienne feared his reaction but she wanted him all the same; with a quiet sigh, Brienne felt her fingers haltingly touch his hand. Without a moment to react, his fingers finally twined into her hand as he snapped her body close to his, knocking all of the air from out of her lungs.

Tighter and tighter still; his right arm anxiously coiled around her back while his left hand possessively held the back of her head close into his neck, threading her sweaty, pale blonde hair between his hard, nervous fingers. Again, he clutched and unclutched her hair with a want, keeping in time with the slow pace of a gentle heartbeat.

Never before was she held with such longing; never before did she ever imagine such love could one day be part of her own life. As she finally found the strength to return his hold upon him, Brienne nuzzled her face into his neck and felt her tears melt into his warm skin.

Still too shocked to speak, Jaime held her closer still with an impossible strength he never knew he possessed. He slowly opened his eyes as the cold stream of doubt began to gradually trickle from his weary, eager thoughts. He felt her heart pounding loud against his chest; her skin was incredibly warm, her breath was hot and her tears singed his soul with love.  

Dazed by her return to life, Jaime tried to speak but he was still too choked to breathe, much less, anything else.  Once Brienne ran her left hand into his hair at the back of his head, he heard a dry, broken sob rush out of his throat. Closing his eyes once more, he stilled his fingers in her hair as he held her head closer into the crook of his neck. Without fear or thought, Jaime kissed Brienne's flushed and sweating neck with everything that belonged to his heart.

A soft, watery gasp filled the armory, Brienne's own as Jaime's reverent, passionate lips finally touched her skin.  Dragging his lips together to seal his kiss over her skin, he found his mouth soon kissing her neck, once more, without haste. Brienne's mouth fell open into a stunned sigh once his lips began to climb up her throat, over the healed wound of her sword bite; gradually, she felt her head grow heavy as her neck and chin curled into the tender graces of Jaime's loving, exploring mouth. Eventually, she felt his kisses trace her ear, her jaw line and the side of her mouth, all made with the passion of a man born to love.  

Before his mouth could finally fall onto her lips, he suddenly pulled himself away from her as her head tumbled forward with a jarring surprise.  She opened her heavy eyes to find Jaime's flashing back at her with hurt and fear. He began to growl with a low cadence from his strangled throat.

"What is wrong with you?"  Confused, Brienne could not begin to think of a reply. " _What is wrong with you?_  Do you _really_ think so little of _your own life?_ Do you truly value it so much less worthy than _mine_?"  His voice was now clear and exact with a sharp anger. With every question, his voice grew louder as he started to slowly shake her shoulders with barely concealed anger.  

Hurt by his sudden turn of emotions, Brienne felt her forehead crease with confusion and fear. Jaime glared back at her with stormy green eyes and felt his face grow dark with rage. Under his frantic, challenging look, Brienne felt her lips tremble with hurt as she felt her confidence of his love start to waver.

" _Who do you think you are?_  You _lie_ to me; _betray me_?   _Chain me to a wall, against my damned will?_ Cover my face, so what?  So I can't see you suffer-- _watch you die?_  Was it worth it?"

Heavy tears fell down Brienne's face as his voice boomed with a shattering roar that made her feel ill for all of her poor choices.  Her heart cracked in her chest as Jaime’s fury continued, impassioning him with a blinding fury.  She felt her young face burn with a great, heavy shame.

"Was it worth it?  Brienne? _Is your life so worthless to you that you'd throw it away for an Oathbreaker?"_

Jaime shook her loose shoulders again as her face finally broke down into a devastated, almost girlish weeping. He took no joy from her anguished tears; if anything, her torment inspired more wrath from him...it somehow even moved him to love her even more.  

Watching her crumbled, homely face turn beet red with streaming tears, Jaime watched Brienne lower her broken face with dense humiliation; a wracked, tattered sob filled the silence of the dusty armory. With stringy platinum hair falling over her bloodshot eyes, Brienne felt her weight lean away from Jaime's embrace as he still kept his hand and arm close around her shoulders.

He almost watched her die.  He had _already_ watched her die. To know that he could have lost her— _yet again—_ made Jaime want to weep from the very notion.  

As her tears began to slow, a hard roll of hurt choked her lungs; Jaime looked down at Brienne’s mournful face.  Slowly, he began to delicately stroke her stringy hair.  His face was still tight with anger, still pale with rage, but her tears slowly began to melt his icy resolve; he carefully pulled her head back close to his chest.  This time it was her choking him with her grip.   With a thin gasp, Jaime buried his face into the back of her head, breathing in the sweat, leather and blood of battle.  He didn’t want to ever imagine losing Brienne again; he didn’t want to ever imagine another day without her ever again.  

Gradually her arms began to uncoil from her terrified grip.  She was beginning to believe that this was going to be the last time he would ever want to see her again.  Reluctantly pulling away from his warmth, Brienne suddenly felt exhausted from fighting. Desperate not to make any eye contact with him, Brienne started to finally extract herself from his iron grip...until she felt his warm hand upon her face.

Closing her eyes against such a stark intimacy, Brienne felt his eyes linger on her face.  She meekly opened her eyes again only to stare at Jaime’s chest; he began to make a soothing, loving caress with his thumb across her cheek.  Her tears grew faint; they still fell, but only with the idle trail of humiliation and fatigue.  Jaime wished only then, for the first time in a long while, that he had two hands; two to hold this woman’s face.  He wanted to hold her stubborn, stupid, ugly face just to show her how much he loved her.  Wiping at her ever present path of tears, Jaime found the strength to speak as Brienne’s breathing started to settle back down again.  He was frightened to hear how emotional, how strangled his whispers had sounded.

“Don’t you know how _precious_ you are to me?”  Her breath grew still as her glassy eyes started to make their way back up towards his. Too reserved to make any eye contact for long, Brienne could only manage fleeting glimpses back towards Jaime as he continued. “Don’t you know how _cherished_...how _dear_ you are to me?”  

There were other words he wanted to share, but he felt too angry, too dazed to share words that were so...costly to him.

Brienne’s raw face stilled as Jaime’s confession started to burrow its way into her heart.  For most of her life she had to keep her every emotion bolted under lock and key behind a thick castle wall for her own protection; at first, Brienne had thought she had only imagined he would ever say such things to her.  Looking back at him now, she finally allowed herself to see how sincere he was, how vulnerable he was by his own confession.  She finally knew of his love only after her death; now living, in the shattering boom of his anger, she had no way of knowing his heart now.        

Feeling desperate to have her comprehend, Jaime slowly grazed the back of his fingers over her ravaged cheek, stroking her as if she were only a vanishing dream made into flesh.  Suddenly overwhelmed by his blend of anger and affection, Brienne closed her tear threaded lashes with a small sigh and a whimper of heartache.

Fearful she was starting to close her walls against him, Jaime wrapped his right arm around her shoulders as his hand started to push back the sweaty hair that obscured her face. He wanted to see her eyes again, his most priceless treasure. Smoothing his hand over her sweaty and bloodied forehead, he pushed back more of her hair with frustration and want. Part of him wanted to wipe away the anger and hurt she caused him; another part of him wanted to bury his mouth into hers and never part from them again.

Exhaling slowly with a weary breath, Brienne opened her eyes again to find the look of the man she fell so hopelessly in love with. His green eyes turned soft with unshed tears; lifting up her right hand to tenderly place it over the hand resting on her face, Brienne heard a faint gasp slip from his throat as her warm hand stilled his trembling fingers.

If this would be the last time he ever wanted to see her again, she only wanted one kiss to carry in her heart forever. Caressing the back of his hand with her sweaty palm, Brienne leaned the weight of her head into his hold, wishing to have this new feeling last forever.

With a loud click of locks and the dull roar of the crowd outside, Brienne felt her slack neck grow firm with as she opened her eyes. The air was sucked out of her lungs; it was her father.

Selwyn had to battle against the throng of crowds outside of the armory following the heat of the battle.  Doubt along with the dangerous temptation of hope weighed in his chest; outside of the armory two Lannister guards held the door in protection of the regent.  Even though the guards recognized the Lord of Tarth, they had offered him entry into the armory to be with Ser Jaime and the Faith's champion.  The Lord of Tarth refrained. He understood that Jaime would want to have some time alone with Brienne.

Allowing the two of them to have a moment together, Selwyn patiently waited as he felt like he was about to burst through his own skin with wonder. He didn't know what to think; all he knew was he had a chance to finally see his daughter again.  As moments passed, Selwyn waited for what had felt for a life time; he finally entered the room to see his only child.

Shutting the heavy door behind him, Selwyn's eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the armory; he knew he was standing in the presence of his girl.

"Father?"

His heart broke at the sound of his child's voice. Rushing to her side with a swift pace, Brienne squeezed Jaime's hand before letting go of his with a trailing glance. He nodded his head at her, understanding her need to let go.

From a short distance away, Jaime watched father and daughter reunite with a peculiar air of interest; he never knew what it was like to have a father so open and loving with his emotions. Watching the tired lord's face shatter with a tortured, confused joy, Jaime lowered his head awkwardly; he knew he didn't belong to such a private moment. Before he could step quietly out of the room, Lord Selwyn glanced back at Jaime with a befuddled bliss. Slowly, Jaime returned the Evenstar's smile and felt included in the moment somehow.

As the Lord of Tarth closed his eyes back again, all three heard a great commotion and some distant screaming coming from the courtyard. Worried, Jaime quickly made his way out of the armory; Selwyn and Brienne soon followed from behind.

Taking quick steps to the courtyard above, Jaime was overwhelmed by the bright sunlight reflecting back from the snow. Squinting against the glare he could see a sizable gathering beneath the marble balcony where the defendant had been seated for the trial.

_Cersei..._

Ladies of court shrieked and sputtered for help, begging for someone, anyone, to do something.  A member of the Kingsguard was on the ground, holding the thrashing head of his sister to his lap.  Jaime was horrified by what he found.

His sister, the mother of his children, his lover and his once perfect half...was dying. Helplessly twisting her legs on the snow covered ground, the former queen dragged her single foot across the stone floor beneath her, sweeping aside a wide swath of snow surrounding her.  Her other leg, lacking a second foot, floundered about as it tried to instinctively secure a foothold beneath it. Desperate to calm her down, Jaime stilled her shortened leg with a hand of gold and a hand of flesh. He looked back up at her with a dreadful knowing.

Her face had started to turn into the color of deep violet, nearer to the shade of Dornish plums that were revered in the springtime for their cloying sweetness.  Her fingers, shaking uncontrollably, were at her throat, making desperate attempts to draw air into her lungs by clawing at her throat. Thick streams of blood fell from her fingertips and flooded into her collarbones; spilling down into the bodice of her beautiful dress as her skin started to turn slimy and pale.  

Jaime held her shortened leg still; he knew she was about to die. To his horror, he saw that Cersei had successfully clawed her way through the tender flesh of her throat and was beginning to expose the hard, blood coated matter of her trachea.  Delicate fingers scrambled still into her flesh, trying desperately to remove whatever obstruction that was in her throat. Jaime dared to look up at her.

Eyes, ruby red and blown wide with dark pupils remained expressive with a desperate gaze fixed up at no one above her. Her face was covered in a thick layer of sweat and her golden hair was now spiked up like a bird's nest because of it. Struggling still, members of court, ladies especially, began to cry, weeping like lambs lost in a snowy field.  Jaime held her shortened leg still, wondering if her suffering would ever end.  He felt stupid, desperate and useless.

 _This is how she must have felt when she watched Joff die_.

He was not present at his first son's wedding, but he had heard by many about what had transpired that day.  He knew he was witnessing the final death throes of his sister and he started to feel it before finally happened.

With wet clacking and a strange gurgle coming from the hole in her throat, Cersei Lannister finally found the gaze of her brother’s terrified face and fixed her eyes solely at him.  Though she could not speak, her damned eyes spoke volumes for her:  

_We were born together; we are supposed to die together._

Feeling her torment from that gaze, Jaime closed his eyes and looked away. He tried hard not to allow such blatant hatred of him be his last memories of her. Instead, he looked down at his hands and watched the stump from her leg pull back and forth within his grip. A violent shuddering possessed her limbs; a rapid clucking and gurgling came out of both her mouth and throat.  

And suddenly, she was still.

Motionless and silent. For one impossible moment everything had become tense:  The silence, his thinking, her body...and in the span of a heartbeat, her shortened leg finally fell slack within his hand.  Startled, his hand of flesh let go as while his hand of gold still remained. Daring his eyes to look up back up at his sister, he was horrified by what he found.

Her once fair face was nearly black; her eyes wept thin trails of garnet blood; two streams of clotted blood dribbled down from her nostrils; her tongue had been swollen and turned to a shade of violet as it lolled out of her mouth; a froth of yellow foam burbled and bloomed from the hole in her throat and around her distended tongue.

She was gone.

Jaime could hear a faint buzz of shock drone in his ears. He looked down; only his golden hand still lingered onto the stump of her leg. Disturbed by this sight, Jaime suddenly recalled the story his family maester used to share when they were children:

On the day they were born, Cersei was pulled out from their mother's womb with Jaime's right hand still clutching his sister's right foot.

His hand of gold could feel nothing.  

So he let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing a trial by combat was a challenge, but hopefully I did alright.  
> Still not too focused on the details of a sword fight; I thought I'd leave  
> that to you and your incredible imaginations to fill in all of those kick  
> ass fight moves in between.


	13. It's Good To Feel You Are Close To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A son is comforted; the High Sparrow speaks; Jaime and Brienne begin their confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13. Lucky 13. Lucky, lucky, lucky 13.
> 
> (sigh)
> 
> I need to apologize to everyone reading; I wanted this chapter to be be published days ago; I struggled with  
> this one. I must have re-written it three times, at least. Kept changing points of view, kept changing the  
> opening and closing scenes. I even felt like I was shoe-horning in a scene that didn't make it into this chapter...  
> we're going to save that puppy for one of the...sexy chapters...coming up soon. Needless to say, I am  
> disappointed in myself that I didn't finish this in a more timely fashion. Hope you all can forgive me.  
> OK, enough blah blah blah. Let's have some fun!

 

The title for this chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda; you can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Its-good-to-feel-you-are-close-to-me) if you're interested.

 

 

 

Like a mad flock of scavenging ravens, hundreds of people descended upon the courtyard just to catch a glimpse of Cersei's ghastly, blood drenched corpse.

Women of the common folk began to shove high born ladies to the side only to have a better look at the former queen's blackened face and blood soaked chest. High born men who were too proud to be seated anywhere near the ground during the trial were now jabbing children and the elderly with their sharp elbows just to get a closer look at their now dead queen.

Jaime could distantly register the people that had surrounded them now; members of the Kingsguard and Lannister guards had valiantly tried to keep the clamoring assembly of onlookers at a distance. Though the uproar of the crushing mob had become deafening, Jaime could hardly hear any of them as he watched yellow foam bubble out from both Cersei’s mouth and throat in slow motion.  He felt like he had been somehow locked inside of a walking nightmare.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Held close to her father's side, Brienne looked down upon Jaime's hunched back and felt a numbing ache swell within her chest. Without seeing his face she could only assume how much he now mourned for his sister and lover.  

Brienne had watched with horror the queen's blackened face swell with blood as her violet tongue started to uncoil from her frothing, foaming mouth. The blood that had poured from her once dainty, pale throat was now slashed to bloody, gruesome strips; the sagging ribbons of flesh, her creamy gold fat and white pink tendons now sloughed off the queen's throat like a blood clotted scarf made of gore.

Though her death had been unexpected and horrible to witness, it somehow became a sickening relief for Brienne. The Maid had won the trial by combat, the former queen regent would have been executed anyways; but it was with this insidious act, this foul murder, Brienne felt a strange calm to know that the direct cause of Cersei’s death was no longer tied directly to her.  Still, it now hurt to know that Jaime has been denied his last chance to offer up his final goodbyes to his beloved sister.  

In a far off corner in the courtyard, a series of guttural shouts could be heard as Gold Cloaks and Lannister guards started to bark orders out with great intensity.  From beneath a pile of tackling men, Brienne could see the dark robes of a maester sprawled haphazardly below them.  A few people stepped aside until Brienne could finally see what had caused all of the commotion; it was Qyburn.  With a blood splattered forehead and an eyelid swollen shut, Brienne could see the guards surrounding him as they bound him in chains and led him away to the black cells. According to a few people that surrounded Brienne, he had tried to make his escape once the queen had begun to violently expire.

A new commotion started to murmur at the back of the Maid's ears.  Looking behind her, Brienne became nervous once she noticed that the few people who surrounded her were starting to look down upon the glaring white of the snow beneath her feet.  The sun had started to shine bright moments before Cersei's terrible death; now, with the sun's light glaring out over the wide, steel grey clouds from above, some people near her had started to notice that the Faith's champion could not cast a shadow.

One young man off to her left stared down at her big feet with wide, haunted eyes. Another man started to jab at another person off to his side to share with others what he too could see. Uncomfortable with this new exposure, Brienne looked towards her father to silently beg for their departure.

Selwyn looked down upon the grievous site before him. He knew Jaime had been close to his sister; he had of course heard the foul rumors...but he knew this should have been a private moment that belonged only to a family in mourning. Sensing Brienne's unease, he quietly, reluctantly led his daughter away from the crushing assembly without any further delay.

As they made their way out of the courtyard, Brienne saw a great mass of ravens feasting upon the smoldering remains of Ser Robert Strong. In a sea of rolling quarks, high pitched caws and squawking calls, the ravens fearlessly made their way into her opponent’s heated armor to pluck out milky white and charcoal burned flesh with great haste. It was almost as if they were trying to rid the world of Ser Robert's remains, one jagged, mouthful of flesh at a time before they all flew off into the bright winter light.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

The High Sparrow felt an obligation; he assembled a party that could ascertain how the queen regent been poisoned before her trial. As a sign of respect to the mournful members of the crown, the High Sparrow allowed a maester of their choosing to join the septons to explore the cause of Cersei's heinous murder.

The newly selected grand maester, a young man in his mid-forties with silver hair and piercing blue eyes by the name of Prewitt had been chosen; he was joined by the senior members of the High Sparrow's council upon the hour of the queen's death.

With an inspection of her corpse that afternoon, the chosen men were astonished to find that the former queen regent had died at the hands of an incredibly rare, most obscure poison.  It had been exceedingly rare because it had once been refined from extinct foliage that only flourished before the Doom of Valyria. The distinctive yellow foam was what led everyone to agree that the queen had died of a rare Valyrian poison that had been affectionately known as the _Valonqar_ ; it was High Valyrian for ' _little brother.'_ Grand Maester Prewitt recalled that it was called as such because the poison was thought to be the sibling to a well-known poison called The Strangler.

Almost identical to the Strangler, the _Valonqar_ was derived of a subspecies of plants and it was processed in an almost similar fashion. What made this poison so unique was the fact that its final product turned into a clear and odorless fluid; death from the Valonqar did not manifest itself instantaneously; from anywhere between thirty minutes to an hour, the poison would slowly take its viscous effect.  

Queen Cersei had been under tight protection in the Grey Tower. The only ones with access to her were the septons who guarded her, the septas who served her, Qyburn, the little king and the king's regent, Jaime.

Taking some time away from consoling his grieving son, Jaime patiently answered every question that had been offered up to him by the septons and the grand maester.  He recounted for them his last moments with his sister:

She had been well into her cups before he had arrived; wine, along with Jaime’s presence was the only requests she had made to the king before the start of her trial. She told him she wanted to make amends; she had been eager to share a toast to celebrate a truce.  His glass did not look suspicious to him in any way...he remembered he kept fidgeting with a loose garnet stone that was mounted into the goblet. He did not drink from his cup...they had started to quarrel again. With a slow dawn of dread, Jaime remembered he had spitefully dumped his glass back into the carafe before he had left the tower cell.  She had not see him do that...she had been crying too hard by then.

The bottom dropped from Jaime's world once he saw the septons throw pointed glares at one another. The grand maester nodded his head with a grim acceptance once Jaime's account of events started to unravel before him.

"She had every intention of poisoning me, didn't she?"

Grand Maester Prewitt observed the regent's ashen face and numb expression with a small blush of pity; he could tell that Jaime did not intentionally poison his sister, but he did not want to assure him of anything just yet. All Prewitt could do was promise Jaime that they would do everything they could to understand what had happened to Cersei before the trial.

Thanking the regent for his time, the men selected to look into Cersei's death soon departed the king's private solar. For a long time, Jaime stood there in shock, feeling both gutted and helpless; he had been devastated by this turn of events. To comprehend his sister's botched act of vengeance...knowing that her tortured death was what she had intended for him, Jaime had started to feel repulsed beyond all thought or measure of his words.

He had become too stunned by everything; from Tommen's mourning, Cersei's gruesome death, the trial by combat, Ser Robert Strong, the return of Brienne; her eyes, the smell of her skin, her homely, familiar face; and now to learn of his sister trying to poison him...it became all too much.  All that he was left to do was remember that in the end, he was still a father, and the mother of his children had just died. Remembering how cold and aloof his own father had been following his mother's death, Jamie returned to the little king's side, vowing to himself he'd never follow his father’s example.

Quietly, Jaime entering the king's private chambers; he found his son curled up on his wide bed, covered under a pile of thick blankets and a few of his cats snuggled close to his side.  With weary limbs and a heavy heart, Jaime dropped his tired weight onto the edge of Tommen's bed; without moving his head, he numbly reached out to find his son's little hand buried beneath the duvet.

With a faint rustling of silks, Jaime could hear Tommen rise up from his den of blankets that surrounded him. The royal chambers had become gloomy; heavy velvet curtains were drawn closed, keeping all traces of daylight out to symbolize the King was in mourning.  The air inside Tommen's room had started to grow stale; a faint trace of vomit still lingered in the air even though the mess had been cleaned up an hour ago. Once Jaime had broken the sad news to his son, Tommen cried so hard that he threw up all over the bedroom floor.  With a watery sniff and a hollow sigh, Tommen tugged down at his father's sleeve with a blanched face.

Jaime glance back at his king with haunted eyes and a forced, weary smile; he was trying his best to be strong for his son. How on earth could he tell him all that he had only just heard? Should he tell him that his mother tried to poison his uncle? Should his last memories of his mother be of a lovely lie, or instead, a hideous truth?  Watching his sweet, round face turn solemn and curious, Tommen looked up at his uncle with a shy question writ across his features.

"Could you please sleep in my bed tonight, Uncle Jaime?"  Heartbroken by memories of Tywin following his mother's burial, Jaime nodded his head with a resolute heart as he fought back tired and confused tears of his own.

Slowly he pulled his boots off; he was too tired to remove his jerking or his doublet; Jaime could only unstrap his golden hand from off his wrist and slowly tucked himself into the king's soft bed.  Little Tommen felt no fear as he dragged his body close up to his father's and buried his face in his scratchy neck beneath his golden whiskers. Savoring this strange, new comfort, Jaime closed his eyes and kissed his son's head gratefully.

Once his breathing began to slow and he he'd been certain Tommen had fallen asleep, Jaime began to obsess over Cersei's betrayal; her anger and her spite made him want to scream out and rage like a chained lion. But just as those thoughts of his sister would begin to rise, his mind would soon turn back to his thoughts of Brienne.

His stupid, stubborn wench.

How he missed her; he was still so confused and angry by her.  How he wanted to have her there with him right now. How he wanted her with him, always.

As the slow breathing of his son began to lure him into an exhausted rest, Jaime smiled to himself once before the darkness could claim his consciousness. He was proud he finally got to know the feeling of what it was to be the father he had always wanted to be.

As the world outside was still clamoring from the news of the queen's death, hours before sunset, Jaime and Tommen slept deeply in the darkened cloister of the royal chambers as father and son, at last.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

She was so tired.

Brienne felt the bloody gash on her forehead start to clot into a hard crust across her clammy skin; one of the septons smeared a greasy balm across her wounds to help her heal faster shortly after the trial. The sweat in her hair had finally started to dry, making her pale gold strands start to curl in a way that would have been pretty for a woman with a fairer face.

In the company of her father at her right and Septon Meribald to her left, Brienne followed a stern procession of septons in brown cloaks down the Hall of Lamps inside the Great Sept of Baelor.

Brienne no longer felt any fear; she had greeted death, knew the pain of those who mourned her, had been resurrected in light of the red god, fought and defeated an abomination and had found the courage to speak to Jaime in spite of everything. She had now believed that her life was of value; a life worth fighting for...whatever a High Septon may have to say or do to her now would be of little consequence to Brienne.

To her surprise, Brienne was led away from the gilded rooms of the previous high septons and was quickly escorted to a dank and drafty room with filthy windows covered by dusty curtains and spider webs clinging to the corners of the high ceilings. Before her was a man she had seen once when she made her way towards Duskendale; he was the slight man who had first greeted Brienne on Rosby Road.  He had been escorting a train of devout followers to deliver the bones of martyred men and women to the Sept of Baelor.

It was the High Sparrow.

Surprised to see she had made his acquaintance before, Brienne felt awestruck as she took in the Sparrow's roughshod clothes and saw his hardened, blackened, bare feet once more.

"My Lady Brienne.  Did you ever find your maid of three and ten?"  

Still too surprised to speak; Brienne glanced over at Septon Meribald before she looked back down at the High Sparrow. "No, your High Holiness...I had failed."

The High Sparrow nodded his lean face with little surprise. "My brothers...we will need the room."

Without delay, the devout followers of the High Sparrow left the room, leaving only Septon Meribald, Lord Selwyn, the High Sparrow and Brienne. Once the wooden door had been placed firmly shut, the High Septon pulled back a thick curtain to flood the room with muted daylight.

With a flash of sunshine, all men could see long, dark shadows stretch out beneath their forms. All except for Brienne’s.

A curious expression folded over the High Sparrows face; Lord Selwyn watched his High Holiness for a moment, slightly puzzled why he was looking so intently on the floor. He glanced at his daughter, searching for answers but finding none. Between her bright pink cheeks, a slow gnawing on her lips and a slight hunch in her vast shoulders he could see that his daughter felt ashamed. With a glance over at Septon Meribald, Selwyn noted how he was glaring down at the floor as well. Chancing a glance as well, he followed their eyes for a long moment. It didn't register to Selwyn for some time until...

"Brienne...what is..."

The High Sparrow was gentle with his tone.  "Lord Selwyn; your daughter has been resurrected; returned to this world in the light of the red god."  

Selwyn felt an inkling of terror once he understood the implication of the High Sparrow's words. "My daughter was raised in the Light of the Seven.  For a thousand years Tarth has prayed to the New Gods...you can't assume she is a heretic for...for who she is now!"  

The High Sparrow closed his eyes as the Evenstar's voice raised to a fever pitch. Brienne tried to sooth her father's anxieties, but her touch on his arm seemed to only heighten his anger. He had lost her once; he had no intention of losing his daughter again.  

"Father..."

"Brinnie, tell them. Tell them where your faith lies; tell them who your heart serves."

Feeling a panic begin to rise, Brienne started to grow nervous as her father's words washed over her. Darting her eyes between her shadowless body and her father's tearful face, Brienne felt her shoulders cave in towards her body as she fumbled for words to console her father.   

"My lord; the Lady Brienne will not be imprisoned as a heretic to the Faith."  The High Sparrow warmly interjected.  "When we had been informed that Septon Meribald had found a champion for the Seven, I was made aware of her...circumstances."  

Brienne squeezed her father’s worried arm as she kept her sight set on the High Sparrow before her.  “Circumstances that were not my choosing, your High Holiness; not of my control.”

“Yes, and in the end, you were resurrected in the light of a red demon...but you alone chose to serve and to defend the Faith.”  The High Sparrow’s lean face glanced up at Brienne with kind eyes.  “We cannot control the world that surrounds us my lady; we can only control how we choose to react to it.”  The High Sparrow gently patted Brienne’s arm as he glanced over at Septon Meribald.  “I had received word from the Quite Isles; the Elder Brother there had spent some time with you.  He had heard your confessions.  He knows your heart.”

A hot flush of shame filled Brienne’s cheeks; she could only imagine what information had been divulged in such privileged correspondence.   

_If only I could know my own heart as well as the Elder Brother._

“He said that you are a true servant to the Seven.  Is this true?”  Brienne could feel her father and Septon Meribald look at Brienne with a still and silent focus.  “In spite of all that has happened to you, does your heart still believe?  Does it still hold true to the tenets of the Faith?”

_I hardly know what I believe in anymore.  I only know now that I’m not a monster made flesh._

“With all my heart, your High Holiness.  I remain a devout servant to the Seven.”  

Brienne could hear a relieved sigh leak out from Septon Meribald’s lungs.  Her father nodded his head with a strong, renewed assurance.  The High Sparrow looked up at Brienne with an accepting gesture across his face.  “Good.  This is good.”  Brienne felt a faint chill with these cool, deliberate words.  “Tonight, you will rest.  Tomorrow you will be blessed; you will publicly reaffirm your heart in the light of the Seven in the sight of gods and men; after which you will be free to return to your life, reborn as a new woman.”

Selwyn glanced at his daughter with a guarded look; he needed to know that this is what Brienne had really wanted, rather than what she had felt pressured to do.  Sensing his unease, Brienne faintly smiled at her father before nodding at him.  Seeing him comprehend her assurances, Selwyn faintly smiled as Septon Meribald glanced back at him.          

As he cleared throat, the High Sparrow took hold of Brienne’s clammy hands and looked up at her with genuine approval.  “The Faith owes a tremendous debt to you, Brienne of Tarth.  The gods have passed their fair judgement; corruption upon this land has been a festering boil, and now it has been lanced and burned clean of its rot.  You are an evenstar, my lady; _‘the first to shine, the last to fade.’”_

In spite of this fair dismissal, Brienne still could not help but to speak her mind.  “And what of my judgement?  Will your devout followers be as fair to me as you are now?  Am I to know discrimination and presumption for my... _unholy_ resurrection...for the remainder of my days?”

“ _Judge not, for judgement is the Father’s.”_ The High Sparrow’s quote of the Seven Pointed Star felt oddly comforting to Brienne at this uncertain time.  “Have no fear, Lady Brienne.  It will be known far and wide to every sparrow that crosses your path...in every direction you turn, you will pass in peace.”

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

A low, creaking groan filled the Sept of Baelor.  

The great doors of The Mother moved with a laborious speed; his Grace, King Tommen felt a pattering of butterflies in his stomach once the doors had finally parted.  He held his father’s hand as if it were a lifeline; Jaime held on tight, he was almost afraid to let him go.

As father and son made their way towards the altar of the Mother, Jaime could feel his son’s steps begin to dawdle; from the moment of Cersei’s death, Jaime decided that Tommen would get to choose however he wanted to mourn for his mother.  To his surprise, the regent was amazed to see how composed the little king was when he began to settle on his mother’s arrangements

Although his mother had been accused--and found guilty--of high treason, Tommen understood that the tradition for royal burial rites was no longer extended to his mother.  Jaime’s son had considered the idea of offering Cersei only a modest funeral entitled to the noble born, but only for a brief moment; he had decided against it.   Even though the Gods passed their judgement on her, he chose to honor his mother’s memory as a crowned head all the same; innocent or guilty, she still died as the mother to the king.  

The great room to the sept was exceedingly dark; a dense blanket of snow covered the glass ceiling up above.  Hundreds of candles were lit, flickering, glowing...it all would have been so beautiful if the stench of death hadn’t been so pungent.  

The silent sisters had tended to the dowager queen’s body with little ceremony and with no elaborate service; they had been forced to make quick work with her remains.  Though her last moments alive were a horror that still burned vividly inside his memory, from a distance Jaime could still appreciate the hard work the sisters had done to restore some of the former queen regent’s beauty.

Carefully making their way up the marble steps, Jaime studied Tommen’s face discreetly; he knew he wasn’t going to pressure his son into doing anything he would be uncomfortable with. Memories of his little king peeling away from his grandfather’s body during his seven day vigil started to rush back to him.  Jaime remembered the bright clatter of his son’s golden crown falling to the floor as he skittered away; he remembered the look of horror and anguish on Tommen’s weeping face; there was also the bitter memory of his sister as she rolled her eyes and snarled at her son to stop crying.  

Cersei had always been so fixated on appearances; forcing her son to kneel at Tywin Lannister’s corpse had been an unnecessary trauma for Tommen.  Though his mother’s corpse was not decomposing to the accelerated degree his father’s had been, the scent of her death was still an acrid and unnerving experience for Jaime.  

_I’ve been in this damned sept far too many times._

As they made their final approach to the Mother’s alter, Jaime and Tommen stopped short of approaching.  Jaime had been fearful of stepping even closer; perhaps the little king had felt the same way.  Buried deep in his bearskin robe, Tommen absentmindedly scratched his nose while Jaime shifted under his new cloak needlessly.  Both could see Cersei’s face had most of the dark blood leeched from it; her hair was short but it was freshly washed and shined golden.  Her neck was thankfully bound in black silks to match the black dress she wore for her burial.  Because she was found guilty of treason, she was not permitted to be buried in her house colors of her jewels.  Tommen sighed.  He seemed at peace.

“Is it--is it...wrong, that I do not weep now, uncle?”

Jaime looked down at his son in puzzlement; he replied with a soft voice.  “Your Grace is permitted to feel however he chooses to feel.  Everyone should be free to mourn in whichever way they choose.”

“Just as you mourned for your sweetheart?”

Jaime paused.   _Does he mean...Cersei?_

Tommen continued.  “When you returned from the Riverlands...you looked so, broken.  I’d watch you sometimes.  You always seemed so angry; so...empty.  Ser Addam told me you mourned for a sweetheart you had lost in the Riverlands.”

With a deep sigh, Jaime slammed his green eyes shut as he silently cursed Addam in his head.  Opening his eyes he found Tommen looking back up at him again with innocence and sincerity.  Taking a knee at his son’s side, Jaime felt almost a strange need to laugh: He was now openly discussing his love for Brienne at the bier of his dead twin; how absurd the world had felt to him now.  

“I was broken, your Grace.  But then I remembered I have you.  Slowly, I was able to piece my world back together again; and it was then that I realized that a broken man can be restored to life as well.’

Feeling some odd comfort, Tommen nodded his head at Jaime with wide eyes that were full of understanding.  As Jaime looked back at his son with some ease, he began to hear a faint chanting coming from the Hall of Lamps.  With a strange sense of compulsion, Jaime looked at the Kingsguard attending to His Grace and spoke to Tommen.  “Would you like to say a prayer to your mother?”

“Do you think she can hear me?”

Jaime paused.  He didn’t dare speculate if there was a hell; even if there was, he didn’t like to imagine where his sister might end up residing in the next world.  “Yes, your Grace.”

Sighing with acceptance, Tommen agreed to this idea as Jaime led the Kingsguard to take a closer stand at the king’s side as Tommen began to make his Seven prayers to the dead.  Making his excuses, Jaime promptly left to walk towards the Hall of Lamps to see what was going on.     

In the wide, marble halls, beneath the large leaden lamps that were shining bright with colors, Jaime watched a haunting procession of septons and septas as they led a path towards a crystal lined vault used for ceremonies for servants to the faith.  At the center of the procession, he saw two men swinging incense burners used only for conversion ceremonies.  Between the men blessing the air with its fragrant smell, he saw Brienne dressed in a heavy brown cloak, following the pious assembly with a downcast head and her hands bound in prayer.  Jaime felt like he wanted to burst out of his skin with wanting.  

Though he longed to see her, to hold her again and be comforted by her, he felt too insignificant for such a reverent ceremony to be interrupted by the likes of him.  Watching her form drift away with the septons that surrounded her, Jaime felt crestfallen as he watched Brienne melt into the foggy cloud of incense and piety.

“She knows you’re here.”  Jaime was startled by the sound of the Lord of Tarth’s booming voice amongst the eerie chanting of the septas.  “We were told you would be escorting his Grace to visit his mother this afternoon.  Brienne wanted me to see you.”

Following her procession once more, Jaime eventually peeled his eyes away from her retreating form to look back at Selwyn.  “What has happened?”  He didn’t just mean to wonder what had happened to Brienne just now; he wanted to know all, to understand and to make aware of all that had transpired since her gruesome death.

“Brienne has been offered up her freedom from the High Sparrow, provided she publically rededicates her life in the light of the Seven.  It would seem that her...rebirth was of questionable taste since she was returned to life from the red god.”

Stunned, Jaime slowly followed Selwyn’s careful words.  “I’ve heard of rumors in the Riverlands.  There was fear of a...red wizard, who could restore life to those who were once dead.”

With a haunted glare, Selwyn eventually nodded his head at Jaime before continuing.  The Hall of Lamps grew silent once the doors to the crystal vault had finally been shut.  Wrapping a gentle hold of his arm around Jaime’s shoulders, Lord Selwyn led Jaime down the hall in the opposite direction of the crystal vault with a slow, meandering pace.

“There are many rumors, Ser Jaime.  Fortunately and unfortunately, some of those rumors stand as truth.  As for our Brienne...we have _much_ to discuss.”       

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The day had been long.  Jaime was relieved he would finally be allowed to get some sleep, no matter how precious few the hours would be now. Making his way through an icy, snow path, Jaime entered the White Sword Tower with a grateful sigh of homecoming.  Stamping off thick, powdery snow from his boots he brushed off the snow that still lingered on his new cloak and looked up at the tower towards the second floor.  

He had been told Brienne now slept in one of the vacant rooms of the Kingsguard; though it had seemed in poor taste, Brienne had been granted strange accommodations; she was currently sleeping in Ser Robert Strong’s former room.  The member of the Kingsguard who told him that said that others felt it was no disrespect to Lady Brienne, seeing as how Ser Robert never slept or even used the room he had been given.    

Quietly climbing to the second floor of the tower, Jaime slowly peeled his way into Brienne’s room like a daring thief.  He felt like a ghost that was haunting his former self; dressed in a black cloak in a room washed in Kingsguard whites, he looked down upon Brienne’s sweet and sleeping form and felt a strange sense of envy in her.  She was a true knight; there was no room for doubt left in Jaime’s mind.  

In his time with Selwyn at the Sept of Baelor, Jaime learned the strange tale of Brienne’s resurrection and her time with the Second Brotherhood. He came to understood her need to remain hidden once she had learned of her calling to champion the Faith; he learned of Brienne’s fears that Jaime would hate her once he knew she fought to defeat his sister’s champion.  Jaime felt it had been absurd; he could never hate Brienne. He felt anger towards her still, but to allow her to fall on her sword for the likes of Ser Robert Strong?  Jaime was glad Brienne had defeated him; he was glad she had won.

Though he felt a relief to see Brienne safe and restored to the protection of the Red Keep, Jaime still had to have words with her.  He needed to understand.  

Thankfully, little Tommen had no need for his father’s presence that night.  Though he took a great comfort in having his uncle at his side the day his mother died, Tommen had seemed more centered now; more at peace. Looking up at his uncle once he had asked him if he wanted to share his bed again that night, Tommen looked up at his father and said ‘no.’  He assured Jaime that he would feel better if he had some time alone to think.  Impressed by his son, Jaime slowly bid him a goodnight.

He looked down at Brienne now; her face still held scars, her golden head shone like a riverbed of silvery curls in the moonlight.  With a whisper of fear, Jaime brushed his hand over her resting arm.  Brienne bolted awake with a gasp of fear.

She had reached for Oathkeeper; it had felt so sweet to be reunited with her sword once more.  There would be no need for it; as she started to pry herself up from her bed, Brienne soon discovered her intruder had only been Jaime.  Sighing out a breath of relief, Brienne felt her pulse slow as Jaime made soothing, hushing sounds with his words.  Looking up at him once she felt settled, she was surprised to see his face in the pale glow of the moonlight.

"Do you trust me?"

By the faint light of the crescent moon, Brienne could see how earnest Jaime had been. His face was carved into a neutral canvas; Brienne almost wanted to see anger or hostility on his face, those had been the emotions she had been preparing for since her return to King's Landing.  Looking up at his face, serene and open, Brienne swallowed hard and responded without hesitation.

"Always."

She watched Jaime's careful face start to falter with an almost touched expression on it.  Perhaps it was relief; perhaps it was only the beginning of some cruel joke...

_No. That's not who he is._

With a gentle sigh, Jaime offered up Brienne his hand of flesh. Pulling herself from out of her bed, Brienne ignored her own embarrassment by having Jaime see her dressed in only her white sleeping tunic. Bowing her head with modesty, she quickly turned herself back around to pull up a snowy white blanket from her bed to wrap around her shoulders. Quickly locating her doeskin slippers, Brienne followed Jaime as he led her out of her room with a flutter of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

With her fingers twisted between his, Jaime quietly led Brienne the way up the White Sword Tower up towards his chambers, the Lord Commander's room.  

Although Jaime had retired from the Kingsguard only a few days ago, the new Lord Commander, Ser Darren Swann, had been chivalrous enough to allow Jaime to retain his sleeping quarters in light of his sister's trial by combat.  With a quiet confidence, Ser Darren knew he would retain his title as Lord Commander for the duration of his life; as respect for Jaime's service to the realm and quietly aware that Jaime may end up losing his sister following the trial, Ser Darren allowed for Jaime the grace to come to terms with the passing of his former life in the Lord Commander's chambers for a fortnight.

The chambers were much larger than Ser Robert's room had been.  A window had been left open, allowing for a crisp breeze to freshen the room with sharp, winter winds.  Letting go of her hand, Jaime stepped towards the offending window to close it.  He was about to reach over to close the weirwood shutters until he looked over towards Brienne. His heart grew still.

Brienne looked down in embarrassment; she thought that in the glow of the moonlight, Jaime was noticing that Brienne could cast no shadow. Glancing back up, she could see that he was not looking around her or behind her. He only looked at her instead. Slowly, he walked towards her. With deliberate fingers, he reached up to run his hand over the white fabric she had draped over her shoulders. He finally spoke up with a faint gasp.

"Is this..."  Jaime's voice faltered for only a moment. "Is this the Kingsguard cloak I gave you?"  Brienne was startled to see how touched Jaime had been by this reveal. Looking back up at him with a nervous glance, Brienne nodded her head briefly as Jaime began to smile.

Slowly running his fingers over his retired honor, Jaime had been pleased to see Brienne had still kept it. Though it pained him to let go of his lifelong service to the Kingsguard, Jaime felt like he somehow restored his lasting legacy by having his cloak being worn by someone he loves.  He wanted to kiss her.

With a faint grin, Jaime turned back around to close the shutters to his room before he started to undress for bed. Dawn would be in only a few short hours; he wanted to steal every minute he could before the life of a regent had to take commands upon his life once more.

She felt awkward standing there; she had no idea what to do with her hands. Burying her fingers into the white folds of the Kingsguard cloak, she watched Jaime as he slowly peeled off his own cloak, the one that was supposed to belong to her brother. She watched him gently hang his beloved gift from her father on a bronze hook mounted onto the wall with deliberate care.

Brienne was a little surprised by how reverently he treated the sea lion cloak once she saw how he treated the rest of his clothing. His dark blue jerkin and stone grey doublet were shucked off his skin without much care or consideration. Every lace and buckle seemed to be an ugly imposition as he tugged and unlaced at his clothes with a hard, fumbling hand; a small frown of annoyance crossed his features as he unclasped a stubborn knot.  He made quick work to rid his golden hand from his tired body.  Brienne didn't dare reach out to offer him any help. He had brought her up into his private room not to be taken care of like a child; he brought her because he trusted her, because he wanted her. Perhaps, just like her, he could no longer imagine being anywhere else but at her side.

Still standing, Brienne started to feel a faint shiver of thrill as she watched Jaime pull off his undershirt; slowly, he started to unlace his breeches. Although a clutch of panic gripped Brienne's throat, she forced herself to swallow past it as she steadily reminded herself: She trusts him; he trusts her.  Jaime had been careful not to make any eye contact with Brienne; he was heedful not to have her think that she was witnessing anything salacious.  Instead, Brienne began to understand how comfortable, how natural Jaime had felt in her presence.

Somehow, in the midst of all of this, Jaime started to grow shy; he suddenly felt a need for some modesty; he turned his back towards Brienne once he started to remove his smallclothes.  Brienne lowered her head down once she understood what Jaime was about to do. Part of her had felt some relief once he turned around for her sake; another part of her felt disappointment once she realized how much she had wanted to see all of him.  She let her eyes linger all over his lean back and his soft skin. A hot flush of wanting filled her cheeks once her eyes started to glance down at Jaime's firm backside. Ashamed for such wanton thoughts, Brienne quickly lowered her eyes back down once he started to drape a long, white sleeping tunic over his nude form.

After a brief pause, Jaime slowly turned back around to face Brienne; he watched her face for a moment before a shy smile crossed his mouth. They've already seen each other naked; there was nothing to be ashamed of. In the baths of Harrenhal, Jaime had exposed everything to her; he confessed to her every burden that had lain in heart since the day he became the famed Kingslayer.  To stand before her then, naked, had been the furthest thing from exposing his shame that day. But now, for all that has happened between them in the armory; his teary confession to her, his full kisses on her neck, the gasping kisses on her face...the air between them now felt thick and heavily charged. It had almost felt as if lightning was about to strike down upon them at any moment.

The last time she had seen him this vulnerable, he had been half a corpse and half a god; lean, sickly, and handsome, but hollowed out by the physical and emotional trauma to his body.  She had also shown herself to him as well, moved by outrage from a sharp comment he made about her failure to protect Renley. Jaime then remembered her rising from the water with such force, such...passion. He forced himself to not to dwell on that particular memory. Brienne trusted him now; he had to return her trust with his respect.

Walking towards Brienne carefully, he watched the Maid with a look of reserved modesty before he paused in front of her; Jaime held out his hand to her as a shy offering.  Brienne looked up at him and discovered how earnest, how nervous he truly was. Looking back down at his hand, she carefully placed her right hand into his and squeezed. He glanced down at their hands bound together and squeezed back with a faint smile.

Leading Brienne towards his great bed had felt strange; Jaime didn't realize how nervous he was until he swallowed hard and glanced nervously down the length of his bed. With a few more halting steps he let go of her hand to pull back the heavy, white woolen blankets to reveal cool, fresh sheets. He paused for only a moment before he realized he hadn't breathed the entire time he held her hand.  Seated down upon the inviting bed, Jaime looked up at Brienne with a slight look of fear in his eyes as he reached up for her hand again.

 _He's just as scared as I am_.

With a small tug of her hand in his, Jaime scooted back onto the mattress as the full length of his body finally began to make its way under the covers. Leaving open a wide space in the bedsheets as his silent invitation for Brienne, Jaime let go of her hand once more to hold up the thick blankets for her.

Touched by his courtesy, Brienne toed off her buttery doeskin slippers and gently folded her body under Jaime's covers after she carefully draped her Kingsguard cloak over the covers of his bed. Uncurling her long legs under the chilly bed sheets, Brienne rolled onto her left side as Jaime stayed motionless on his right.  He let out a small sigh once she settled herself close to him. Relieved, he felt his eyes grow heavy as he pulled back the heavy white blankets and his old cloak only to cover them both up like precious cargo to be disguised from a thieving world. Wrapped within the security of his heavy blankets, Brienne felt herself grow even shyer once his green eyes finally fell onto hers.  

He paused, holding his breath for a while as he felt his eyes linger on her. Her blue eyes were wide and slow to blink; the thick scar across her lips had become somehow even more enticing to Jaime. When he first saw her in the armory, he had wanted to kiss every wound with his lips, as if the act itself would somehow not only heal her, but himself as well. He salved his kisses upon the wounds on her neck, somehow trying to permanently suture his love to her precious life forever.  Once his mouth turned to her face on that fateful day, he saw the wound on her cheek and the gash across her lips. Sudden memories of their last moments together flooded his mind; before he could bring himself to finally kiss her, his anger finally won out over his shock and his joy.

He considered her lips again under the faint glow of the moonlight. He wanted to kiss them, he wanted to fold his tongue into her panting mouth and coil his heart into hers forever. But still, an obdurate anger still lingered within him. He wanted her to know that his love for her would never alter, but still, he had to understand why she had done the things she did to him at Hollow Hill.

Watching Jaime with a small trace of worry creasing her brow, Brienne slowly moved her right hand from the side of her hip and placed it onto the cool pillow that lay between them. She waited. They watched each other with a curious silence.

Moments passed; a sharp, howling gale rattled the shutters to his room; the sound of icy winds rattling the tower made Brienne sink further into the bed with a longing to burrow herself closer to Jaime. As her legs shifted again beneath the cool bedsheets, Brienne shivered with the chilling memories of her last moments alive with him.  How cold she had felt then.  With a tug of concern pulling at his heart strings, Jaime leaned over her to tug the thick blankets around Brienne's shoulders, snuggly pulling them around her wide shoulders and powerful arms. He could feel her hot breath puffing onto his bare neck; another flicker of arousal began to spark inside of him.

Distracting himself by burying Brienne deeper into the covers, he eventually placed his hand onto her arm and began to drag it up and down the length of it; she'd already felt warm to the touch; Jaime just wanted an excuse just to touch her again. He finally spoke to her in the dark with a thick whisper.

"Is that better?"

Still stroking her arm, Brienne closed her eyes with a soft nod as she started to melt under Jaime's affection. Feeling the heat of his warm hand glide up and down her arm, Brienne slowly opened her eyes back open to find him watching her carefully. Feeling her fear start to ebb away, she began to play with one of the long laces on Jaime's sleeping tunic. Coiling and uncoiling the lace around her finger, Brienne noticed how his hand started to drag slower across her arm, making each pass downward feel more sensuous than the prior one. Eventually, his hand settled upon her neck with a warm, firm weight. He paused before sighing; he had to ask.

"Why did you do it?"

Brienne knew this question had been coming; she hadn't expected he would ask her now though.  With a flash embarrassment and a shiver of anger, Brienne felt her neck turn rigid under his hand before Jaime raised it up to stroke her hair back with a tremble.  "Please. Brienne, I need to understand." His voice was wrought with doubt.  "Why did you do that?  Why did you chain me up?"

His eyes darted over her placid features; he was watching her slowly begin to shut down again. Jaime started to stroke the pale hair from her eyes as he watched her mouth fall open with a slow bloom of shame spread across her mouth. With her eyes locked upon his, she felt her words come tumbling out in a mournful whisper.  Between watery gasps, Brienne began to confess to Jaime her truth.

"I had to save you."  Tears began to well in her bright eyes; with a small shudder of breath she continued with a determined voice. "You, Pod, Ser Hyle...I--I couldn't bear to lose you."  Jaime's eyes softened as he listened.  Brienne watched Jaime's face twist in silent confusion.

"I never found Sansa; I had failed Lady Catelyn.  I held Renly in my arms as he lay dying.  I--I couldn't even escort you to King's Landing without..."  She closed her eyes.  "You lost your hand...your _sword hand_ , Jaime."  Heavy tears started to fall; he watched her with a dull ache in his chest once he began to understand what Brienne was trying to say to him. "I felt...worthless. I had to save Pod's life. _I had to save you._  I just--I just...wanted to do one thing, _one thing_...I had to. I had to..."

Brienne's voice started to drift off with hard tears.  Jaime forced his hand to soothe Brienne's regretful weeping. He had to know more.  With gentle strokes throughout her hair, Jaime patiently waited as Brienne's weeping slowly started to taper off.

All the while Brienne spoke, Jaime had wiped tears from her pained eyes as his filled with an ache. Anger still lingered inside of him, but he was beginning to understand what she was trying to say: She had dared to believe that her life had been worthless.  If she was to die, she wanted to die with a sense of purpose, with some tattered shred of honor. Brienne wanted to sacrifice her life for someone who had meant so much to her.

"I was _so desperate_ Jaime. You have been so good to me; so kind...You gave me your sword and your honor. _You believed in me._ "  Jaime cringed to himself. He thought of all of the times he had insulted Brienne to her face, all of the cruel thoughts he had of her, all of the times he had once thought of killing her.

_If she thinks I was kind...the gods only know what cruelty she has known before me._

"I knew you would fight...I didn't want to watch you die. I was so scared; I only wanted to protect you... _You,_ Pod... _at any cost;_ I wanted you to live."

 _She had no idea I've been training since she went off on her quest to find Sansa Stark. Of course she'd think I would be incapable to fight back_.

"I--I...I wanted you to hate me. I had lied to you. _I had betrayed you_. I felt like I was turning into a monster...just another broken man. I wanted you to hate me...I wanted you to live _because._.."

Jaime felt his heart grow still with eagerness as he waited for Brienne to finish her thought. She finally spoke; each word had been grounded out of her mouth with a stuttering fear.

"...b-b-because... _I love you...so much._ I love you _so much."_

Tears threatened to fall from Jaime's eyes as a broken smile started to cross his weary face.

_She loves me_

" _I love you._..and if I believed you hated me... I could l-l-let you go.  I accepted my death just to know I could save your life."

Jaime swallowed a hard knot of pain once he came to a startling realization: Cersei had been willing to move seven heavens and seven hells just to nourish her self-obsession and to have her twin, her ‘perfect mirror’, to die with her on the same day.  Brienne, on the other hand...she had willingly sacrificed her life to protect Jaime and to ensure his survival.  

"In spite of everything...what I am...what I am not... _you believed in me_. Only a precious few have ever...I couldn't fail you."

Astonished by her confession, Jaime threaded his fingers into Brienne's hair as he slowly pulled her face closer to his; their foreheads touched as he began to glare back at her.  Moved by love, fueled with a smoldering outrage, Jaime held her head close to his with strong fingers threaded into her hair. He wanted to startle her; she had to understand his words, once and for all. With a tight jaw, Jaime heard his words snarl out in a low, almost threatening growl.

" _Your life...is not worthless._   _You are not a broken woman."_

He watched Brienne's eyes grow wide with a startled acceptance. He had to make certain she understood him; he wanted her to carry these words in her heart for as long as they both should live.

"You will _never_ fail me. There is _nothing_ in this world that will make me hate you."

Fear started to leech from Brienne's wide blue eyes once she heard how hoarse Jaime's voice had started to become. Her mouth fell open with acceptance once the gravity of his words began to bury deep within her heart.

" _I will always believe in you.._.you daft, stubborn, _bloody cow."_  A small, nervous laughter erupted from Brienne's lips. Jaime smiled back; her laughter had lit a fire in his heart.

"I've _always_ believed in you because I've _always_ loved you."  Brienne smiled in astonishment through her tears and a silent, shuddering laugh.  "I was too stupid to see it...for the longest time.   _I’ve been a blind...thundering fool."_

Jaime hadn't realized he had been crying until Brienne had started to wipe tears from his eyes. Smiling with a gasping laugh, Jaime finally allowed himself to kiss Brienne's joyful mouth.

Silent and slow, his lips fell upon hers with a tender joining of both love and friendship at last. He wanted to silence her pain and dry her tears; he wanted to kiss every one of her scars along with every sweet freckle that adorned her body. He felt her lips grow firm with shock for one instant; with a gentle teasing of his lips Jaime finally tasted of her acceptance and love as his kiss was finally returned back to him.

Jaime felt his head spin with the thrill of her mouth as their lips began to return to one another, again and again, until they were both breathless and left wanting for more.

Slowly, Jaime pulled his mouth from Brienne's as he felt his heart try to race out of his chest.  Pushing her hair away from her face, he forced his mouth to speak in between full kisses to her mouth, her face, her body.

"I love you."  He kissed her scarred cheek.

"I love you."  He kissed her scar laced throat.  

"I love you."  He kissed her gasping mouth.

By the dim light of a rising dawn, Brienne and Jaime lost themselves in the drowning pull of each other’s lips.

With arms and legs tangled within one another, in between their laughter and contented sighs, neither one could hear the persistent knocking that had emanated from Jaime's door.

Still they kissed, and still they laughed.  The sun was rising; they didn’t care.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of the readers out there, you guys are my rock stars. Thank you for your incredible support.  
> To everyone who leaves a comment, I seriously want to buy you all a round of shots and just hug you.
> 
> I've finalized the outline to this story. We've got seven more to go...


	14. Rest With Your Dream Inside of My Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king loses a rose; Highgarden is pruned; Jaime needs rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllloooo! Thank you for your patience; I've must of re-written this  
> ending several times. 
> 
> I'm delighted readers enjoyed the snuggle session at the end of  
> the last chapter. It was fun to write and I hope it sounded in character  
> to you. Thank you again to everyone for reading, supporting, commenting  
> and for simply being just the best damn fandom in the world. This is such  
> an amazing, creative, brilliant community of shippers and it just makes me  
> smile every time I think of you guys out there writing fic and supporting each other. : )

 

 

The title for this chapter is the title of a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Sonnet-LXXXI:-Rest-with-your-dream-inside-my-dream) if you like.

_________________________________________________________________________

 

 

"Qarth?  Are you certain?"

"It's confirmed, Ser. Two spies have reported seeing Queen Margery board a private ship that is bound for the Straits of Qarth...she is to be receiving sanctuary at a spice trader’s manse there."

Wearing a heavy wool robe over his sleeping clothes, Jaime ran his fingers through his hair with a frustrated sighed.  Following the end of Cersei's trial by combat, the Faith had been starting to prepare for their trial against Queen Margery. She had been expected to arrive in King's Landing within several days’ time.

"Where is Mace Tyrell?  Where is he _right now?"_

Ser Addam Marbrand nodded his head with anticipation. "He's been detained Ser; once we had received word of the queen's escape I took the liberty of having him kept under house arrest within his quarters until you had been informed."  

Sunlight was finally breaking its rays through sparkling windows of the White Sword Tower; just across the hall, where he and Addam had discussed Queen Margery's treason, was the weirwood door that led to the Lord Commander's private quarters. Behind that door, in his bed, his wench was waiting for him.  

Though he had become livid by the news of Tommen's wife, Jaime couldn't help but have his thoughts be distracted by the woman who now waited for him; he'd remember the feel of Brienne's warm body wrapped around his own, making him feel young, wanted and loved. The taste of her skin still lingered on his tongue; the memory of her panted breaths on his throat still enticed him; there was nothing in this world that he wanted more than to crawl back into his bed and fall into the warm tangle of her arms and legs, wrapping himself into a perfect knot with Brienne's body.

"Are you feeling well, Ser?"

With a few hard blinks, Jaime glanced back at his friend Addam who studied him with a strange look on his face. He realized then that he must have been staring off at nothing with a simple look across his features.

"I'm sorry?"

"Your face is _very_ flushed."  Jaime began to feel sheepish; it was obvious he had been caught mooning over Brienne.  He didn't realize he had been staring at the door to his bedroom until Addam glanced back towards it .

Clearing his throat, Jaime tried to regain his focus once a knowing smirk started to cross Addam’s mouth.  With a small stutter, Jaime tried to reply. "Um...uh, f-fine, I'm fine."  Addam nodded as he tried to hold back a mischievous grin. "Right."  All of the humor was instantly bled from the room.  "Send out a call to our bannermen surrounding Highgarden; the Westerlands, the Stormlands and in the northern reaches of Dorne; if they want to prove their renewed fidelity to the crown then they will get their chance soon enough. Tell them to set a march towards Highgarden; if the Tyrells are stupid enough to try and make King Tommen look like a fool then it's time for the roses to know the wrath of a severe pruning."  

"And what of Mace?  How would you like for us to proceed with him?"

Behind the door of the Lord Commander's room, Jaime could hear a faint rustling of sound. A small part of his heart began to sink once he realized Brienne was no longer waiting for him in his bed. "Escort him to a tower cell for now--not the Grey Tower, but somewhere else that befits his station.  I'll speak to him, but only after I've spent some time with his Grace; he needs my council and I want to know how he would like to proceed."

"Do you think your nephew will want to take his good-father's head?"

It was a fair question:  If Mace Tyrell had been aware of his daughter's plans to dodge her trial and knew of her plans to go into exile then it would mean conspiracy against the crown; it would also mean calling the Tyrell’s out for treason.

Feeling warm rays of sunlight touch his bare feet; Jaime awkwardly scratched the back of his own neck before he shrugged.  Figuring he was now going to be subjected to a long and arduous day of diplomacy, the regent felt crestfallen; all he wanted to do this morning was to spend lazy hours in bed with his stubborn wench.

Watching Jaime's eyes cloud over with a strange longing, Addam figured it was only best to excuse him so his friend could prepare for a long day in service to the king.   "Well, I'm going to grab some breakfast; you'll be down shortly?"  Jaime vaguely nodded that he would.

Amused by his friends disheveled bed hair and the dreamy look on his face, Addam made his farewells.  Before he headed towards the staircase, Ser Addam paused and stopped for a moment.

"Oh and Ser?” Jaime paused before he had the chance to return to unlatch his bedroom door.  “By chance, if you happen to see the Lady Brienne this morning...please let her know that I would be honored to have the chance to meet her."  

Fumbling with his bed robe, Jaime let go of the latch to his doorway; forcing his voice into a strained nonchalance, Jaime glared at his friend for half a beat before he dismissed him.  “Absolutely, Ser Addam.”

Choking back a swelling grin, Addam continued. “It’s only because when I heard that the Maid was staying in the Kingsguard tower I had hoped to finally introduce myself to her...but I noticed that her room was vacant this morning.”  With a pursing of lips, Addam kept back a smirk as Jaime’s eyes flashed wide for only an instant.  Feeling the muscles in his throat flex and bob, Jaime only nodded his head briefly before he quickly entered his room.     

He had no reason to fear Addam; Jaime had known him for a long time now.  

_He didn’t have to go searching for me when I had gone missing, but he did.  He didn’t have to take care of everything when Brienne died, but he did.  He knows how much that I..._

Jaime froze at once when he made his entry to his bedroom; he felt his mind go blank and it seemed like his heart went still for only a moment.

_Is this just a dream...or have I finally gone completely mad from grief?_

There she stood, dressed in the clothing that he had cast off onto the floor last night _.  His clothes_.  Just as Brienne was finishing lacing up his tunic, she paused to look up at him.  She glanced at him past a curtain of blonde hair that fell into her eyes; her shy expression started to burn away once she threw him with an almost sly grin.

_She loves me._

Although he was disappointed that she was no longer in his bed, he was just as happy to see her wearing his clothes; Jaime could feel his cock begin to stir at the sight of her now.

"I-I hope you don't mind. I only need clothing to head back down to my room."  Jaime slowly shook his head 'no' as his eyes started to turn heavy; a warm smile began to grow as he watched Brienne's face turn sweet with a faint blush.  Feeling bold, Jaime started to lead Brienne backwards towards the wall behind her, stopping once her shoulder blades became flush against a white tapestry that hung behind her; Jaime leaned most of his weight onto her body with great pleasure.

_If this is madness, I'll embrace it._

"I-I wanted to wait for you...in t-t-the, uh...bed...but, uh...I figured that we...well, that is, you would need to--". Before she could finish, Jaime's mouth finally found hers.  In the sweet pull of a deep kiss, Brienne started to feel her arms and legs turn to lead as Jaime's arms wrapped himself tightly around hers.

His mouth had been well practiced, that was one thing Brienne had been certain of.  She had been surprised how easy it was to kiss Jaime; how natural and simple it all had seemed.  That wasn't to say that her kissing were without flaws though.  Several times in bed their teeth obnoxiously clicked together, leaving her with a small flash of embarrassment twist up into her self-confidence; sometimes Jaime's nose would awkwardly bump into her cheek or eyelid if Brienne moved her face too quickly; at one point Brienne was terrified she would begin to drool from her eager mouth as his kisses started to become more passionate, more intense.  Between their panted breaths and heaving gasps, Brienne even had the irrational fear that Jaime would suddenly break his lips away from hers only to laugh and make fun of her. She did hear him faintly chuckle once, earlier in bed; she inadvertently bitten his lower lip with a little too much zeal. Though his laughter never sounded malicious, it didn’t stop him from ribbing her with a sarcastic comment.  

"Wench!  I've known you'd threatened to gag me before.  Do you plan to chew off my tongue next?"  

Normally, Brienne would have responded; perhaps say a few cutting or terse words to deny such accusations. Emboldened by their amorous activities, Brienne instead bit the upper lip of Jaime's mouth with a playful grin as his laughter filled the room; when she finally whispered back with a husky 'yes' she was delighted to hear Jaime's laughter quickly morph into a soft groan as her hands began to wander.

Standing near his dresser now, Brienne returned Jaime's deep kiss as she wore his clothing with a new sense of ease.  Feeling his arousal start to grow precipitously, he quickly pulled himself away from Brienne before he allowed himself to dishonor them both. With heaving breaths he had been grateful that he felt mostly concealed by the heavy robe he wore over his sleeping tunic.  Brienne was starting to feel mirthful before she noticed Jaime's face slowly turn somber.

"Did I do something wrong?"  Jamie wanted to kiss her once more; somehow, her bright, innocent eyes made him feel so primal and ravenous. Smiling with a flushed face and panting mouth, Jaime shook his head and said 'no' as ran his fingers into his hair.

"No, my lady.  You've done nothing wrong. I'm only...annoyed by my duties right now."  Brienne assumed he was referring to some chivalrous obligation he quietly made to himself to keep her maidenhead intact. "Ser Addam has informed me that Queen Margery has snuck away like a rat from Highgarden before her trial; the little rose is seeking asylum in Qarth. Apparently, the Tyrells decided to take advantage of the spectacle the trial by combat afforded them; they had her smuggled her away onto a ship just last night."

Stunned by this news, Brienne gaped at Jaime with her wide, cow eyes. "Could she have been guilty then? Why else would she forego her crown unless--"

"Unless her father had been terrified that his daughter would be wrongfully convicted; or worse, feared she would be poisoned like my sister had been before her trial could commence."   

Disturbing memories of Cersei's last moments alive haunted both Brienne and Jaime just then.

There was no doubt in the Maid’s mind that Mace Tyrell could have feared his daughter for her life, or at the very least, fear she would suffer the cruel indignity of a fixed trial by the Faith.  

"What will you do?"

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Jaime shook his head in dismay.  "I will discuss it at length with the king; ultimately, Tommen will choose..., if it were up to me, I'd place a ransom on that treasonous girls head."  Brienne shot Jaime a pointed look. "But...seeing as how we still have the queen’s father under house arrest, we at least have something else to bargain with the Tyrell’s other than the little queen's life."

Making her way towards Jaime with slow, thoughtful steps, Brienne carefully smoothed her hands over Jaime's chest before she gradually moved in to kiss him once more. Though it had been a kiss that was subtle and tender, it was no less passionate and sweet for either of them. Slowly opening his eyes back up again, Jaime felt a lazy smile cross his mouth as Brienne started to pull away.  

"I'll leave you to get dressed then."

Jaime began to chuckle.  "Why leave?  You've already seen _everything_.  You don't trust me to keep my _hand_ off you?"

With a smile melting across her lips, Brienne ran her fingers through Jaime's hair with a slow, deliberate pace as her eyelids turned almost flirtatious and heavy. "No; I trust you...and your _hand_."  Jaime leered at her suggestively.  "I don't trust my own."  

Watching his face blanche with surprise would have normally made Brienne beam with a sense of accomplishment. Instead, her face stayed neutral as she blessed Jaime with another slow and burning kiss. She followed his eyes as they pulled back apart; Brienne turned her head and left Jaime's room without another glance backwards; indeed, it was a rare privilege to leave a man like Jaime Lannister breathless and in stunned silence.  As she eventually made her way out of his room, wearing his clothes, Brienne could no longer afford to hold back a ladylike smirk that began to cross over her battle scarred cheek.

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

Mace Tyrell had been pitifully drunk by the time Jaime had met with him. Kept under tight guard, the regent was a relieved to discover that their hostage was not spiteful or belligerent while he was intoxicated; to his dismay, he learned that Mace had been an emotional drunk instead.

From the outside looking in, Jaime clenched his jaw with a foreboding dread.  "How much did he have to drink?"

Ser Addam glanced back into the cell room with a slight cringe. "Guards said he just cracked into his second flagon an hour ago; he was piss-blind drunk _even before_ he had been arrested."

_This was all planned; he had orchestrated his daughter's escape for some time now. He stayed behind at the Red Keep to broker terms for his family; he still wants to play the game._

With careful steps, Jaime entered the cell room with a cool efficiency. He watched Mace drain his goblet as a thin dribble of Arbor red trickled down into his well-trimmed beard. With teary eyes he followed Jaime's path into his darkened room as he remained seated next to a small table with splashes of wine on it. In his haphazard hands, Mace tried to refill his goblet once more but failed; his tin cup clinked and clattered onto the stone floor with a teary peel of slurring curse words.  Jaime stooped down to retrieve Mace's fallen drinkware without even missing a step.

Without anything to do with his hands, Lord Tyrell slouched further into his velvet chair with defeated shoulder and red splashed cheeks. "Ser Jaime...our sweet king's... _chosen regent._ How may I serve the realm for my good-son...our good, King Tommen?"  Jaime couldn't help but cringe at Mace's heartbroken voice.

Before Jaime had a moment to reply, the little king quietly entered Mace Tyrell's room without warning. Wearing his heavy bearskin cloak, Jaime was impressed to find a jade Tyrell rose brooch pinned to the top of his regal cloak.  With a placid expression, Tommen walked past the guards to stand proud at Jaime's side; without a sideways glance, the regent handed the tin goblet towards his son; Tommen handed the goblet back to Mace with an almost indifferent air.

"Your Grace."  Mace tried to stand but merely slouched his head with a heavy nod.  "I am to assume you are here to collect my head."  

Returning the tin chalice to his disgraced father-in-law, Tommen blinked with thin lips and a distressed expression on his face.  "Good father, I wish we were greeting under more pleasant circumstances."  Shrugging with teary eyes, Mace quietly refilled his glass again as Jaime looked down upon his son.  Lord Tyrell brought his near overflowing goblet up to his mouth; he replied to the young king between loud, heavy sips.

"If I may be so bold, your Grace...one day you will become a father. I pray that the gods bless you with _many_ healthy sons."  Tommen remained stoic; his good-father continued. "To have a son...it fills a man's heart with such strength, such optimism...with sons you can see your legacy live on in a perfect copy; there is a deep pride in carrying your blood and name to the countless generations that lie ahead of you.  

“But to have a daughter...to become a father to a sweet girl...suddenly a father's strength begins to falter."  Thick tears fell down Lord Tyrell's face. "As a father, you feel so blessed, and yet, so fearful in having a girl. In her eyes you not only see a fresh legacy, but you can also see kindness, humanity, innocence...a chance for redemption.

“I'm not proud of all of the things I've done to women, your Grace.  I was young once; I had been discourteous... dishonorable with my fair share of maids. I've seen war; I know too well what happens to innocent women and children following the sack of a city. It’s only when you have a daughter, you suddenly become a man reborn; it’s only then you realize that you would move seven heavens and seven hells just to keep her protected...to keep her safe."

Jaime shifted his feet; with concealed sympathy he tried to imagine what it must have been like for Mace to see queen Cersei to die in such a terrible fashion.  To watch her die slowly and to know how likely it would be for his own child to know a similar fate...such fear would have been unbearable for any father.  If the tables had been turned and Jaime had been Mace and Myrcella had been Margery, wouldn’t Jaime have done anything he could to keep his own daughter protected and safe?   

The young king seemed grim; Jaime knew just how sensitive Tommen’s heart was; even Mace Tyrell knew how gentle it could be.  Though the young king allowed for his good-father the grace to explain himself, the regent was painfully aware how Mace Tyrell's sentencing would unfold; it was to be a severe punishment, but it was a punishment with room for grace.  With a heavy silence woven with thick tears, King Tommen spoke again with the utmost delicacy as Mace continued to weep.  

"Who else besides my lady wife boarded that ship to Qarth?"

With a thick drag of wine, Mace continued. "You wife--my daughter--was accompanied by my mother, the Lady Olenna, along with my son, Ser Loras."

Surprised, Jaime interjected. "Ser Loras was critically wounded during the siege of Dragonstone. "

Mace shook his head 'no' as he buried his weeping face into a weary, scrubbing hand.  "He was injured but had recovered. Convinced that he might have been forced to champion Cersei in a trial by combat, we sent false word back to King's Landing that he had been gravely injured. He was smuggled back into Highgarden only a fortnight ago."

Tense with anticipation, Jaime glanced down at his son.  King Tommen slowly made his judgement known.

"I hope your family enjoys its exile in Qarth. If anyone ever sees them set foot in Westeros again I will have them executed on sight for treason."  Mace wearily nodded his head.  

"As for you, I will let you keep your life, but only for a steep price: A husband without his wife is only one half a man; because I have been torn from my second half, I see it as only fitting that house Tyrell shall know my pain as well.  

“One half of your family's wealthy now belongs to the crown; one half of your lands now belong to the crown as well.  The land relinquished from your family will be divided evenly by the bannermen who support our rise against Highgarden."  Mace started to weep again.

"If you fail to accept these terms you family will be hunted to the ends of the earth like dogs; your castle will be torn brick by brick, your lands will be salted, the Tyrell name will be no more and your head will be mounted upon a spike before sunset."  For one moment, Jaime felt as if though he was in the presence of Tywin Lannister again. "Do you agree to these terms for the dissolution of the holy bond I made to your daughter?”

Slowly, Mace nodded his head again. King Tommen looked up at his father with sad, tired eyes; he had no room left in his heart to say anymore.  With understanding, Jaime finished the rest of the sentencing for the little king in a flat and conclusive tone.

"You will be escorted back to Casterly Rock tomorrow where you are to remain as an honored guest for the duration of your life. Your eldest son will now become the Lord of Highgarden; or rather, _what is left_ of Highgarden...provided he doesn't do anything that would be ill advised, my lord."  

Mace wearily shook his head 'no.'

In a fresh wash of blubbering tears, King Tommen and his regent slowly vacated the fallen lord's cell to leave him with his grief. With a heartfelt sigh, Jaime's son lingered in the hallway as the door to Mace Tyrell's cell was finally bolted back shut again. Kneeling in front of Tommen, Jaime slowly rubbed his fur covered back with a comforting touch; his son quickly wrapped his arms around his father’s neck in one swoop.

“You did well, my King.  You did well.”

"Was I a bad husband?"

Jaime almost didn't hear his son's question over his whispery voice. Pulling Tommen away so he could speak to him with finality, Jaime was quick to discredit his son's mounting fears.  "You were a fine husband, your Grace."  Tommen's face remained downcast. "Perhaps it was a union made too soon. When you're six and ten, I promise...we will find you a queen who is worthy of you, your Grace. Someone who is kind, witty and thoughtful."

Tommen paused as he chewed on his lip for a moment. "Will she be as pretty as Margery?"  Jaime sighed.

"Tommen...beauty is a sweet thing but it's not a measure of happiness or love. Sometimes the most dangerous things in this world are often disguised as the most beautiful so we won't think twice before we harm ourselves to obtain it."  Jaime fleetingly thought of the night Cersei had seduced him in a ramshackle inn on Eel Alley. His thoughts then quickly turned to Brienne, blushing and enticing in his bedroom while wearing his clothes and a coy smile.  

"True beauty is found in the heart of a woman you trust and who you are dear friends with; she’ll be someone who loves you for who you are, in spite of everything you’re ashamed of; the most beautiful woman is the one person in your life who you can no longer imagine living a single day without."

Tommen looked back at the bolted cell door with a helpless face.  Turning back to his father, he gave Jaime a final look that said that he understood what he meant.  “Love seems so scary sometimes.”

Jaime nodded in agreement.

_The things I do for love._

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Brienne had been reluctant to leave her father's side; she didn't realize just how much she missed her father and Tarth until she had finally been reunited with him.

A flood of lovely memories always trailed within the singing tone of Selwyn’s deep and comforting voice: It was the smell of freshly baked sourdough bread cooling in the kitchens; it was the sight of her father's ginger cats sleeping on dusty books under fat beams of sunlight in the library; it was the crash of the waves surrounding Shipbreaker's Bay and the taste of salt in a howling breeze; It was the windy roar of storms and the creaking swing of branches from the great redwood trees that surrounded Evenfall Hall.

Though father and daughter got to spend all of the morning and most of the afternoon together-- breaking bread and discussing most of what happened during her journeys away from home--Brienne received an unexpected message delivered by a servant a few hours before the evening meal.

_‘Meet me in the kitchen courtyard.’_

Brienne recognized the distinctive scrawl on the parchment; the words were clean and small but the penmanship had a slight flourish that could only be taught by a maester to a member of a noble house: It was Beth Bowers; the Second Brotherhood was in need.  A week prior to her trial by combat, several members of the new Brotherhood managed to secure common serving positions within the Red Keep.  Should Brienne have failed her trial by combat, the members of the newly formed brotherhood were prepared to attack Robert Strong on their own if they were forced to.  Though Ser Robert had been defeated and Qyburn was successfully imprisoned, the members within the Red Keep needed to be certain that there would be no way for an abomination such as Brienne’s opponent to ever live again.

Wearing a slate blue cloak with a deep hood to conceal her face, Brienne carefully stepped into the back courtyard of the royal kitchens to look for Beth.  A small river of blood melted a gruesome pathway through the snow and ice from a butcher's block nearby; the coagulated blood sluggishly flowed towards a large, metal grate that was buried between the thick stone pavers nearby.  In a darkened corner, Brienne could hear a pig squeal for its last time as a carver's knife sliced its way across the pig’s bristled pink throat; an elderly woman was seen quickly removing feathers from a fattened duck that lied limp across her bony lap. The sweet smell of comforting, sugary desserts fluttered past Brienne nose with some longing; thick bushel of radishes, onions and potatoes tumbled and _thump_ _thumped_ out of a heavy wicker basket onto a nearby wooden table for sorting. Dinner for the Red Keep was fast approaching.

Standing by a tower of snow covered barrels of ale, Brienne found Beth Bowers tucked away into a darkened corner with a basket of goose eggs clutched tight into her thin arms.  Relieved, Brienne headed towards her friend in search of answers.  

A brief hug was exchanged between the two; Brienne could smell bread flour and lard in Beth's hair and clothes.

"I was _so proud_!  So proud to see you win!"  Though Beth was elated, she had to speak to Brienne with a hushed and strangled joy.  "I wanted to storm the courtyard after you won.  Did the regent see you after the battle?"  

Brienne thought of her encounter with Jaime in the armory with a faint grin; she thought of their kiss that morning before she left him to get dressed. The Maid nodded with a modest, pleased look upon her face.  Watching Beth nervously tuck a lock of her dark hair behind her ear, Brienne wondered out loud what had happened; Beth soon replied with a cautious glare.

"We have not yet found where Qyburn had performed his...experiments at."  Brienne soon felt queasy. "We've spoken to the gaoler, he even led us down to Qyburn's quarters, but all we found there were just standard books and papers any maester could have. There had been some talk among the turnkey's that Qyburn's experiments were all performed in one of the black cells, deep beneath the Red Keep."

Memories of Ser Robert Strong flooded Brienne mind with a slight tremble. His milky, white-blue flesh; the black veins that seemed to shine like onyx beneath his pasty skin; the terrible, oyster rot smell he made once his sluggish blood was let.  "I will do everything I can do to help Beth. I must be vigilant though; the Faith only released me provided I continued to show leal devotion to the Seven. If I'm seen with anyone from the Second Brotherhood again--"

"I understand. I don't want to put your life in danger, Lady Brienne; you deserve to live the rest of your life with happiness. But we must make certain that all of Qyburn's notes and experiments are destroyed before they fall back into the wrong hands."  

Rubbing her temples with a faint strain in her neck, Brienne agreed with her friend with a tired and weakened smile.

_I miss Jaime._

 

 

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

She had searched for him.

Following dinner, Brienne quietly roamed the halls of the Red Keep in hopes to find her Jaime.  It had started to feel desperate but she had begun to ache for the sound of his laughing voice and the sight of his handsome smile.      

In the glooming hours of a winter’s night Brienne was starting to feel despondent until she had recognized one of Jaime’s squires, a thin lad named Peck, as he quickly approached her.  With worried eyes, Peck offered up his most sincere apologies; he told her how he searched all of the Red Keep to find her that night.  Peck had also said that Ser Jaime had been tied up with meetings all day concerning matters of diplomacy; there were frank discussions being held between the crown and Highgarden following their heinous acts of treason.  With a faint blush, Peck also told Brienne that Ser Jaime wished to be with her sooner but he was tied up with an unexpected meeting with the grand maester; it was about the inquiry into the dowager queen’s murder.        

Without knowing how long the meeting with the grand maester would take, Brienne wished her father good night and walked through the godswood to gather her racing thoughts.  As the moon raised high above the great tree line of the King’s Wood, the Maid of Tarth gathered her blue cloak around her body and returned to her room to reluctantly go to sleep.

As Brienne entered the White Sword Tower that night, she had found the door to the Round Room had been left wide open. On the white shield table, Brienne discovered the fabled Book of the Brothers lying open at the head with quill and ink at the ready. Intrigued, she stepped closer to find which entry the book had been left open to.  It was Jaime's.  

Feeling curious, Brienne brought a small pillar candle closer to the White Book to read his noble record.  There were no tell-tale signs of fresh ink drying on his page; for whatever reason, the book had not been written into this evening.  It had been discouraging for Brienne to see so little had been noted beneath Jamie's family crest; the entry that noted him as 'Kingslayer' made her feel frustrated and anguished.

_He is so much more than that; if only others could know what I know._

Under the second paragraph of his page, Brienne noticed where Jaime had once take up a quill to fill in his most recent deeds; the childish scrawl from his left hand had created a unique penmanship that was easy to distinguish. To her utter amazement, Brienne found her name had been written in his careful scribbling; his mention of her had been the last line to his entry; he had honored her by placing her name in the fabled book. Stunned by this she blinked hard against the candlelight just as a trail of smoke started to linger too close to her eyes. She could feel tears starting to form; she had wanted to cry.

She may never get to be a knight but she was honored by the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard all the same. Re-reading his passage once more, something had started to bother her; she couldn't figure it out, it was a nagging, doubting thought that wouldn’t leave her alone.  

Her steps had been sure in the winding path of the tower. A few candles lit the staircase but Brienne didn't need them, the glowing light of the moon was gleaming full and clear. Quietly, she tip toed past one member of the Kingsguards who was tucked into his bed, snoring soundly with a slight whistle in his nose.

With a quick glance towards the Lord Commander's bedroom, Brienne could see candlelight streaming around and beneath his door; she knew that he was inside; she could hear him shuffling his feet within the room. Resolute, she made her way towards him and knocked on his door.

Her hearing had been strained; once more she made a gentle knock, eventually she heard his voice answer. "Come in."  Nervous, she twisted the latch to his door and entered; she had felt concerned by what she found.

Jaime Lannister's back was facing the door to his room. Through a thin, grey tunic he wore she could see the vertebrae of his spine lined up as it poked through his shirt; his lean back involuntarily twitched his muscles as he started to seat himself a little bit straighter once Brienne had paused in the entry.

"Jaime?"

At the sound of her voice, Jaime turned his back around to find his friend, his companion, his wench standing in the middle of his room waiting for him. Relieved to see her, he offered up a crooked smile to welcome her. He could feel his heavy heart lift at the sight of her.

_How I missed you._

Feeling rather needy, Jaime lifted his hand up for her to take a hold of. Without missing a beat, Brienne walked over to his side to take his hand. With a rueful thought, Jaime remembered how upset he would feel once he realized that his sister could not ever take a step forward for him. But here was his stubborn Brienne; he offered up his needing hand and she crossed the room just to hold it.  Twisting his fingers tightly into hers, he gave her a lazy smile as Brienne sat down next to him on the bed.

His voice was quiet; it had trailed with a gentle sigh.  "I thought you might have been sleeping..."  It wasn't until she sat closer to him, closer enough to the candlelight that had been perched on his window sill did she realize that there had been tears that had been freshly scrubbed from his eyes.

She did not want to coddle him, but Brienne wished with all her heart she could somehow pull the ache from out of him; she wanted to offer him his room to heal. Watching him carefully she gave Jaime the time he needed until he was ready to speak.

A moment passed. Then two. Between lingering sniffs from Jaime's nose Brienne could hear the wild crashing waves pounding on the rocks of Blackwater Bay. All the while touching his hand and carefully stroking his fingers, Brienne saw all of the tell-tale signs writ across his remaining hand. On his ring finger she found a smudge of fresh ink drying on his skin.  There were thick calluses, fresh slices across his knuckles; she found some new scars that had healed fairly recently.  Brienne could tell Jaime had been practicing hard with his sword training.  Smiling at this, proud of his stubbornness, Brienne lifted Jaime's hand up close to her mouth and gave it a dry and sweet kiss. From the corner of her eye she saw Jaime finally glance back up at her.

He looked weary, beaten; worn and abused. Had she not known him any better she would assume he would have flinched had she kissed his hand once more. She did kiss it, but he did not flinch; instead he pulled his head close to her and kissed her mouth with a soulful brush of his own lips.

With her other hand, Brienne held Jaime's neck as his gaze fell down towards his lap. Dragging her dirty fingernails through the back of his hair, trailing all the way down towards his neck, she patiently waited to see if he wanted to share anything with her, to know what had bothered him. Finally, he spoke.

"The grand maester met with me this evening. He wanted to talk to me before the septons of the examination presented their findings to the members of court and the High Sparrow tomorrow."  Brienne listened carefully, every word he spoke sounded like a chore for Jaime.

"She had died from an old Valyrian poison, a rare toxin...and she had intended to kill only me with it."

Brienne was shocked; not wanting to interrupt his train of thought she allowed him the time he needed to continue.

"The septons _interrogated_ Qyburn. He said that when she lost her foot..."  Jaime paused as he clenched his eyes shut. "...she had said that she wanted to watch me suffer; she had said she wanted to watch me die; _a slow and painful death._ "  With a dazed look in his eyes Jaime started to remember his last agonizing moments with Cersei. He continued.

"The grand maester and the septons had tested the wine found in the carafe and the wine they found in Cersei's goblet. They had only found trace amounts of the poison inside both. The goblet...the goblet that had been intended for _me_ to drink from...the poison had been coated on the inside of my cup. It had dried clear...I could have drunk from it...and I would have not known any better."

The pain in his voice started to gain as he started to speak a little faster; it had seemed as if he were saying all of this as if he were still in denial.

"I could have died that day, Brienne. _She wanted to watch me die._ I was so angry at her before the trial; we fought.  I even...I even hurt her.  She said things, stupid things that made me rage and want to kill her...I didn't, but she still had every intention of killing me. I was so disgusted by her; I dumped the wine from my glass back into the carafe. I didn't..."  Jaime voice started to grow thick with unshed tears.  Devastated he looked up at Brienne with pain in his eyes.

"I killed her, Brienne.  I killed..."

His voice fell silent again as the storming sea surrounding the tower had churned below. With her heart twisted in agony, Brienne kissed Jaime's mouth with her love and her friendship. She wished she could somehow carve out the pain that dwelled within his chest.

Holding her hand tight, Jaime lowered his face down again with a great weight of shame. He felt his lips buzz with the thrill of her kisses; his heart started to race, his eyes began to dry over and turn scratchy. Still, even with her love and comfort at his side, nothing could uproot the aching that was growing from his broken heart.

Brienne felt an unsettled pause within her gut; it was not Jaime's grief or betrayal that gave her concern, it was his sense of guilt that made her feel anxious.  Livid at his spiteful sister, exhausted from a long day away from him, Brienne lovingly held his face between both of her soft hands and spoke in a soothing tone.

"If you are fighting for your life... if you are defending yourself from an attacker, you are not a murderer; you are only protecting your own life."  Jaime nodded silently.  "If your attacker falls upon his own sword, _it is not your fault_...it's only what has happened."  

His green eyes met up hers; he slowly leaned in for a gentle kiss. Lacking the passion of his mornings graces, Jaime felt his lips linger slow across Brienne's with a tender, longing pressure.  

He wanted more; he had spent all day imagining this moment. He had wanted her; he wanted the joy they had shared together early that morning; he wanted her smiles and her breath on his neck and to feel her nails sinking into his skin; he wanted to touch her and make her body respond with a gasping want; he wanted to sink into her body and drown his aches, lose fears, smother his doubts and move in her as if they were one.  He wanted only her love, and now he was too tired, too exhausted by his own heartache. Even in death Cersei knew how to exact her toxic revenge.

"I'm so tired."  

Brienne heard the almost apologetic tone in his whisper. She understood what he had meant; he wanted to give himself to her but his body, his heart and his mind had no strength left to give. Nodding her head, Brienne ran her fingers through his hair once more as she returned a sweet kiss to his lips.

"Will you stay?  Stay with me tonight?"  

The doubt that lingered in his voice made her want to cry.  "Of course I will stay with you. There is no other place I'd rather be."

Returning her loving kiss with his own, Jaime dragged Brienne's hand from his face to pull it towards his mouth. Kissing the palm of her hand, he dropped his face to his chin with exhaustion.  Squeezing his hand back, Brienne rose from Jaime's bed and turned to lock his door.

Still seated on his bed, Jaime looked over his shoulder to watch Brienne as she moved throughout his room.

_Selwyn is right; she does move with a singular gait._

Jaime watched her confident stride and the careful swing of her arms. With every turn Jaime noticed a gentle sway in her hips; they had a slight roll with every step she made...it was a woman's stride with a warrior's strength. She was impossibly delicate on her toes, it was the slight flare of a sword fighter's training that sculpted her posture and molded her grace.

_She is beautiful._

Her hair was tangled and she had a small mat at the back of her neck. Her teeth were prominent, sticking out of her mouth with an almost horsey grin. The scars on her mouth and face still had a shiny glare on it from the fresh, healing skin still knitting together. Her freckles were countless and smattering; her lips were large and were made for his kisses. Her eyes were wide and astonishing, more beautiful to him than anything that was considered precious by others.

Curious, Jaime watched Brienne begin to slowly remove her clothing.  Still wearing his clothing from earlier that morning, he watched her untuck his tunic from the pants before she started to remove two freshly laundered sleeping tunics from his dresser. With one hand holding on to hers, she walked over to Jaime and handed him the other. He smiled faintly; she smiled back.

In the corner, Brienne casually disrobed his clothing from her body without shame. With a sharp knot of disappointment, Jaime realized how much he had wanted to be the one to undress her this evening. Instead he cautiously glanced at her as she slowly exposed her firm body to him.  A low stirring sparked within him but he was still too tired, too emotionally exhausted to give her the love she had deserved.

Needing to distract himself, Jaime began to dress for bed as well. His clothing pooled to the floor with no cares; stripped bare, he slowly dragged his sleeping tunic upon his aching muscles and over his heavy bones. From behind him he could hear Brienne pull down the blankets from his bed.  The Kingsguard cloak Jaime once gave her had been left in his room that day. With her hand clutching her revered cloak, she spread it across the bed as it were another blanket.

A small grin quirked to one side of Jaime's face; Brienne blushed once her eyes locked onto his.

"I-I'm used to sleeping with it. It made me think of you."  Jaime stared at her.  "I missed you."

With a broken voice he replied.  "I missed you too."  

They both crawled into the bed with a subdued thrill. Their cool knees bump together beneath the blankets and their icy toes grazed each other’s shins. His elbow briefly jabbed her ribs, he spoke out with a small curse of embarrassment hissing from his lips before he gave her an apology.  

Sunken yet again into the deep pillows the two stared at each other with still a strange awkwardness still tethered between them. It still felt so odd for them to finally know the feelings they had for one another; it was the newness, the raw, jagged nerves of a freshly broken heart that was slowly grafting itself together to the blood, muscle and tissue of one another.  Every brush of skin on skin felt like a delicious sin finally being indulged; every kiss had felt like a divine and incomprehensible miracle to them.  

Stroking his thumb over the back of her strong hand, Jaime closed his eyes and started to bury his head beneath Brienne's chin with a shy look in his eyes.  Moved to sympathy by his wounded gaze, Brienne wrapped her arm around Jaime's head to encompass him close to her. Burying her lips to the top of his golden head she kissed him as he sunk his face deeper to Brienne's warm chest.

She wanted him.

His skin, his hair, his smell, all of it had now had enveloped her. Feeling her toes tuck in between Jaime's legs she dared to lift her knee a little so that her leg could twine into his. She could feel the soft bulge of his flesh between his legs as it briefly drag across her upper thigh with its warm, enticing weight; she wished he could kiss her breasts and bury his body deep between her thighs.

She had also wished that Jaime did not feel the heartbreak caused by his sister’s betrayal.  Brienne knew that Jaime’s love for her was sincere; she had heard his prayers, she knew of his longing for her in the shadowy rhythm of his mournful heart.  Their love had been a strange seed that was first planted in the dark bowels of Riverrun inside the walls of a shit stinking dungeon.  It had sprouted in her and in him too, in spite of a lack of conscious nurturing along the wild and winding roads that led them from the Riverlands to King’s Landing.  It had flourished under the warm and shining trust of one another; in between the burden and blessing of honors and oaths their love was tirelessly nourished by the precious gift of an oathkeeper.  His love had grown into a thick and arrogant vine that wound its way through the marrow of her bone, woven in and out of the softness of her flesh, coiled within her ribs and bloomed deep into the beating chambers of her thundering heart.  She had no reason to be jealous of Cersei…and yet, her mind still fed her with doubts.

Feeling her heartbeat turn slow she noticed Jaime's breathing had become measured once he finally fell asleep. Burning with want, Brienne finally closed her eyes and willed herself into a reluctant sleep.

_He loves me. He loves me._

_He will always love me_.

After a long while, sleep had claimed Brienne's mind as well.

                                                                                                                                     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone up for some smut?


	15. Night on the Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne get to know one another; the Lord of Tarth slays some lies; there is news from Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've all had second and third helpings of angst. How about some smut?
> 
> Oh and plot...there's some plot too.
> 
>  

Title for this chapter is the title from a Pablo Neruda poem. You can find it [here](http://redamancylit.com/2013/05/20/from-night-on-the-island/) if you're interested. 

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In his soft bed, Jamie stretched his long legs like a well sunned cat; a small smile began to stretch across his waking face once he recognized the warm and inviting weight of Brienne buried deep into his side.

He had been in desperate need of rest; the night he first snuck the Maid into his bedroom, neither one had managed to find any sleep. To speak to her with his open, bleeding heart had been a thrill, a rush--the equivalent of a mud splattered tourney gone wild.

Confessing his love to her had been more terrifying to him than he would ever have felt comfortable in admitting. Jaime did not fear death. He did not fear war or battle, if anything the crash of sword against his metal plate and blade was his life's poem; the crunch of bones, the spray of blood and the splatter of gore was always his finest masterpiece.  But somehow, the most terrifying moment of his life had been the simple act of making room in his bed for his Wench and allowing himself to make room for her in his heart as well.

Snuffling into his chest, Jaime felt the soft puff of her warm breath as she twisted her face into his neck. Her body felt so warm and soft, he almost feared to move; he wanted to fall back asleep wrapped tight within this newfound comfort. He wanted to sink back into her arms and cover her throat in kisses; he wanted to nuzzle her hair with his nose and wrap his entire body around hers; he wanted to bury his flesh into hers only to be never be parted from her again.

Squinting his eyes against the faint glare of sunlight, he stroked his hand against her shoulder with a slow, soothing speed. He loved having her next to him like this; she was so trusting, so vulnerable.

Like the instant flash of a sudden downpour, all of the memories from last night began to drench Jaime's joy. He thought of Maester Prewitt's findings; a sickening veil of anger began to cloud his moment with Brienne. Pausing his thoughts, he stopped to consider what it was that had bothered him so.  

When he first discovered that Cersei had died of poisoning, he felt it had been a cruel and terrible fate for her end; for her to die like their first son had been an unimaginable horror. After her gruesome death, as he laid in Tommen's bed to be by his side, he started to obsess over those last minutes he shared with his sister in the Grey Tower; he began to assume that not only did she want him to die, but that she wanted to die with him _as well_.

The notion of a murder-suicide was in keeping with the obsession she held; it was the sickening, twisting, serpentine dream she held; that they would forever share a fate conjoined. But then he had learned of Prewitt's findings...and for him to know how much hatred his sister held for him, to know that it simply wasn't a botched murder-suicide, it had simply been a botched murder...it had begun to hurt Jaime all the more.

Hearing Brienne's dream laced sigh as she burrowed her heavy head deep into his neck, Jaime began to force the intrusive thoughts of Cersei out of his mind; he only wanted now the sweet woman who was wrapped around him in his humble bed, not the cold, stinking corpse mounted on a gilded bier in the Great Sept of Baelor.  

_We had been twins, but we were never the same person._

Jaime stroked Brienne's hair with a faint trace of his fingers.

_If Cersei could hold onto that much hatred against me...then I can give that much love--and more--to Brienne. I'll spend my entire life giving her my love._

Wrapping his arms tight around his Wench's shoulders, he was delighted to hear a small squeak of sleepy consciousness tumble out of Brienne's mouth.

_Let hate lie with the dead; I will choose life._

He dropped firms kisses to into her pale blonde hair. She began to sigh with wakefulness; he kissed her forehead with his love. With his right arm he curled his shortened wrist around her warm waist with a slow longing; with his left hand he curled his fingers into the back of her hair.  He kissed her forehead again before Brienne started to lift her head; he burrowed his nose into her rising face; he kissed the warm temple that had been resting upon his chest. She smiled with still closed eyes; he kissed her cheek, he kissed her mouth. Slowly, she kissed him back.

Her breath had stunk but he had no doubt that his did as well. Sleep was crusted on one of her eyelids; he was certain that his hair had looked like a rather tragic bird’s nest of scattered hair. Neither one cared; their mouths were too preoccupied with loving one another.

Jaime had considered the kisses from their first night together; they had been of an excited and joyful union; there was no room left to grieve, every touch felt and every word spoken had become a release, an elation; their joy sounded of an almost self-conscious laughter as it rang deep in their hearts that night while the brittle clay of their civility cracked and splintered away into the flaky, clattering shells of their presumptuous past. The kisses they had shared from last night, however, were quieter and far more somber; the shards of their painful past had to be swept up in order to be discarded; a new creation had to be reforged; their love had become a fragile genesis that was born on the narrow edges of grief and been cured upon the delicate ledges between sorrow and the solace.

The kisses they had shared this morning were of a new creation however; this was of a deeper love; more slow, rich and complex; it had smoldered and melted, blended and healed; it had flooded the aches of their painful souls and smoothed out the jagged edges of their doubting minds; it was a love that had now flooded the deep, hollowed cracks of their hearts and fortified it into something that would was be tempered and unbreakable. It was a kiss of healing comfort and quiet confidence; it was slowly becoming a new love, a unique vessel that was impossible to replicate and had become hopeless to imagine without.

Feeling their mouths grow more frantic, more passionate, a flash of anxiety flooded Jaime's mind once he understood where this was going. Pausing, he slowly opened his eyes as he watched Brienne stare down at his sleep swollen face. With a shy smile she rolled a scabbed knuckle into her sleep crusted eye as Jaime ran his tired hand ran up and down her back slowly. She turned her head away shyly from him.

"I'll be right back."  Jaime grunted his acceptance as Brienne slowly dragged her warm and inviting body out of their bed.  Immediately, his body began to mourn her sudden absence as the cool morning air flashed over his heated skin.  Watching her stumble towards the privy with a self-conscious smile Jaime smiled back as he sank deeper into the bed. Once the door to the water closet had been finally closed, Jaime quickly ran his fingers through his hair while staring up at the vaulted ceiling with a slamming heartbeat and a heaving chest.

_Gods...I'm so nervous._

Smoothing his hair through his fingers once more, Jaime quickly jumped out of bed to stoke the fireplace in his room before he threw a few more logs onto it. Earlier that morning, after he had used the privy, he stoked the fire so he could watch Brienne sleep for a while; he knew how much Brienne loved the fire now; he would sometimes watch her stare at the flames with a distant, almost dreamy look on her face.

Wearily rubbing his hand over his face he smoothed his hair over once more before he took a quick drag of wine near his writing desk, it was his hope to wash out the paste in his mouth that carried his foul morning breath. Pausing as the burn of alcohol made a warming drag down his throat; Jaime shrugged before he took one more swig for his nerves.

As the fire within the white stone mantle popped and crackled back to life, Jaime sunk his toes into the thick rug beneath his feet with anxiety. Glancing around, he waited for Brienne almost impatiently. And that was when he saw it.  

It was the Kingsguard cloak he had given her; it was still lying across their bed like a heavy sword, forged of solemn promises and ponderous honor.  

Giving pause to his lusting thoughts, Jaime suddenly remembered the burden of sworn oaths and all of the pious talks of fidelity he had grown up with. He also remembered that Brienne was still just a maiden...and that her father had trusted him with more than just her honor.

_‘...nothing but honorable with my daughter.’_

Touching the soft, rich fabric of the cloak between reverent fingers, Jaime sighed before he paused. He suddenly knew what he wanted to do.

 

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Her bladder had been near to bursting by the time their sweet and lingering kisses had started to become intoxicating.

When she had swept her thigh over Jaime's legs that morning, Brienne could not only feel evidence of Jaime's arousal, but of hers as well. A small moment of panic had set in before they both had to pause their deep, searching kisses. Slowly pulling her head away, Brienne realized what this would eventually lead to just as she watched the bobbing Adam’s apple in Jaime's throat dance in rhythm to his galloping heart.

_This is going to happen._

Awkwardly rubbing a crusted glaze of sleep from her lashes, Brienne twisted her face away from Jaime's flushed face and lusting mouth; she needed a moment. Reluctantly, she dragged her body off of his, inadvertently brushing his rising manhood against her wanting thigh before she quickly scampered to the privy like a startled fawn lost in the woods.

With the relief of her bladder, Brienne was able to finally come to terms with what was about to happen. She trusted Jaime, that would never change...it was rather...it was rather difficult for her to know if she could trust herself however. She had not been japing with him the other morning when she said that she had to leave him before he got dressed; she honestly didn't trust her own hands in his presence. But now in this moment, she wasn't entirely certain she could trust herself.

Was this choice she was about to make entirely her own?  Was she moving with the confidence of a young woman grown?  Or were all of her choices purely motivated by her pink fresh lust?  Would she hate herself when the deed was done, or would she truly not care?

Washing her hands again from the nearby basin, Brienne ran her trembling fingers through her tumbled hair and swept her wide hand over her eyes and mouth. She tried to smell her own breath; she drank some water to be sure. With a gasping swallow she felt a resoluteness settle within her heart; in the end, she knew that no matter what, she would trust Jaime implicitly.

 

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Settled back into the bed, Jaime felt awkward as he tried to wait for her. Outside, the sparkling windowpanes of the White Sword Tower were starting to frost over with fresh ice as snowflakes began to tumble down from the hazy sky. With discretion, Jaime tried to conceal his stiffening cock from beneath the blankets as he crossed his hand and shortened wrist over his lap.  

He had tried to imagine how he should greet Brienne when she returned from the privy: Should he be standing by the bed?  Have one arm cocked across the mantle and one knee propped onto the mouth of the fireplace like some arrogant pup? Hearing her slowly extract herself from the privy, Jaime panicked and immediately tumbled back into bed like a child going to sleep after hearing some terrifying ghost story.

She wandered out, wide eyed and blushing. He felt his breath leave his body. Looking over towards the fireplace Brienne smiled fondly as she realized that Jaime had stoked the fire while she was gone; he had also fixed his hair and lost the look of sleepiness in his eyes.  He smiled at her; she smiled back. Without pause he once again folded the blankets to their bed back with an inviting glance towards her. Feeling almost faint with anxiety she walked over towards his side.

Pulling back the blankets and the Kingsguard robe around themselves, Brienne smiled coquettishly as Jaime glanced back at her with a wide, nervous smile. A moment lingered between them as they both felt their heads sink back into their pillows. Feeling anxious in the strangled silence, Brienne finally arched her neck towards his and kissed him well.

He wanted to lose himself into this moment; he wanted to grab her by the shoulder, roll her onto her back and drive his body deep between her legs. Instead he pulled his mouth away.

"Wench."  She tried to kiss him again. "Brienne.  Look at me."  Startled, she paused; he looked resigned. A wave of foolish dread filled her chest."I—I'm." He sighed; her eyebrows started to pin together with worry.  With a soft, murmuring voice he made his confession to her. "I don't want to dishonor you."  Brienne quietly began to panic.

_This was all a joke..._

"I _want you_...I just think...it would be best for us to...go, uh, _slow_.  Do you understand?"  Brienne's wide, cow eyes remained unblinking with fear and doubt; licking his lips, Jaime continued.  "I think it would be best if we spent some more time... _getting to know one another._ " Brienne felt faint once she began to understand what Jaime was trying to suggest. She had been warned by her horrid septa how dishonorable couples of a noble lineage would salaciously pet each other with lusting hands in order to preserve a lady's maidenhead. Fearing that she did not comprehend his veiled request, Jaime began to timidly drag his knuckles over one of Brienne's nipples through her white tunic. With a thin gasp and even wider eyes, Brienne watched Jaime smile coyly at her.

Blinking her eyes shut, Brienne nodded her head as Jaime slowly lowered his face back toward hers.  Again, his knuckle brushed over her other nipple; Brienne kissed his mouth back with all of her heart.

Nearly choking on her enthusiasm, Jaime smiled through their passionate joining of mouths. Slowly, he pulled his lips away; he had an addendum to make to their clause.  With a breathy voice and a suggestive leering of his eyes he continued to speak between their gulping kisses.  "We will only use our hands..."  To her surprise, Brienne felt suddenly relieved; Jaime noticed, he had begun to feel relief as well.  "...and we will keep our clothing on."  Nodding her head with a heated glare, she dipped her mouth back towards his.  

_This is really happening._

Minutes passed; Brienne had started to feel impossibly wet. Slowly dragging the inside of her thigh over Jaime's hardening member with a devastating speed, Jaime groaned with a deep sound from his chest. He pleaded with her with a tortured voice, hoarse with need.

"Come here."

He pushed the arm that she rested on her side down towards the mattress while he snaked his hand and arm to roll her over so her back would face his chest. Spooned up behind her he achingly kept his cock away from her firm ass. He needed to last if he wanted her to touch him as well.

Wrapping her within his strong arms, Jaime buried his nose into the back of her neck as a small groan emanated from Brienne's lips. With a shot of warm air rushing out of his lungs, Jaime closed his eyes as his aching cock longed to bury into the inviting cleft of her rear. She squirmed closer towards him but he reluctantly pulled away. Instead he dropped his one hand over her stomach.  Stunned from the contact, she waited.

With fingers spread wide over her stomach, Jaime began to make slow, tortured strokes upon her body; over her ribs, beneath her breasts, down the outsides of her thigh; slow and smooth, without hurry. Brienne's chest started to heave with an almost keening whimper; he would not yet touch her where she longed for him to. Every time she squirmed her body within his arms, trying desperately to get his hand to touch wherever she ached for him, Jaime would still his movements.  Pulling her tighter into his strong arms she would hear a low growl at the back of his throat before he would continue the sensuous assault on her body. Eventually, his hand trailed down over the soaked tunic between her legs.

"Have you ever touched yourself before?"  Jaime made feather soft traces over the wet patch of the sopping cotton; Brienne gasped.  Slowly, she answered him with a nod.  Keeping his hand still after her wordless confession, Brienne finally spoke with a whisper throttled with need.

"Yes."

He rewarded her for speaking; he slowly began to move his hand again.

"Give me your hand, Brienne. Show me. Show me what you know."  She felt like she wanted to faint. It felt nearly impossible to believe this was really happening. With shaking fingers, Brienne placed her hand over Jaime's and began to guide it over her body as if though it was her own.  

She moved slowly; upwards towards her breasts she moved his hand to cup them and lightly squeeze; switching from one breast to the other, she eventually brought Jaime's fingers into her mouth, wetting them with her tongue in a languorous speed. Eventually she pulled them out; she heard Jaime's ragged breathing fill her ear.  With his glistening fingers she brought them towards her chest to twist them down into the front of her tunic. As his breath began to hiss with need, Brienne swallowed a moan once his wet fingers began to pinch and tease her nipples on their own.

For a few moments they remained like that, Jaime kissed her neck and her cheek, feeling honored and privileged to have Brienne trust him like this.  Eventually her eyes opened back up to glance back at him from the corner of her eye.  He stared back at her as she finally led his hand downward towards the juncture between her soaked thighs.  

Timidly raising her sleeping tunic past her knees, Brienne finally led him deep between her long legs and almost wept with the relief that came with it. Jaime's chest stilled as a low groan rolled out of his mouth. Carefully guiding his fingers over the slick flesh and curling wet hair, she finally propped up her left leg upon the mattress to offer up her body to him in complete submission. With a few gentle teases at the mouth of her slit, Brienne guided his middle finger in towards her glistening folds.

To Jaime's relief, he watched his finger finally dipped into her molten gold core. Hissing at her impossible softness, the incredible slickness of her wet folds, Jaime instantly felt a primal greed possess his mind; all he wanted was to feel this moment for the rest of his life: Brienne's warm body in the curl of his own, her soft skin, the heady scent of her arousal, the soft scratch of her golden curls beneath his needing hand. He wanted to hear only her panted breathing, her gasping moans; hearing her speak his name, only his name, uttered from her full and scar crossed lips.

After some time of gentle teases, Jaime dared to sink his finger deeper between her tender folds; a hard, breathy gasp filled the air as Brienne twisted her rear further back into Jaime's seeking arousal. Her soft slam against his hips elicited a low groan from his own as he slowly began to pump his greedy finger into the soft vice of her wet heat. Her guiding fingers left his hand to seek out and to touch his ribs, his ass, the back of his firm thigh; her fingers started to grow limp only until Jaime dared to sink another one of his thick fingers into Brienne's glossy slick entry.

It felt impossible for him to keep his eyes open for long. To feel her soft curves press into his hardened member felt too good for him to endure for much longer.  His mouth felt dry; his warm breaths bathed her ear, her cheek...he could only gasp out her name between soft groans into her neck.  There were so many words he wanted to say, things such as "so good," "beautiful," and "mine."  Every word he wanted to share only faltered once he knew they could all be expressed with one perfect, solitary word: "Brienne."

Kissing her shoulder, her neck, her ear, he looked down to see her small breasts rising and falling like pointed waves, trapped beneath the billow of her cotton tunic.  Feeling his eyes burn on the enticing bounce of her body, hearing his name, feeling her wet folds grow even slicker, Jaime knew his Brienne was close.  Burying his forehead deep into her hair, Jaime felt his fingers dance over her swollen nub; once, twice; again, again.  With a deepening gasp that had been ripped from her chest, Jaime firmly pressed his thumb upon her wet pearl once more before it all came shattering apart.  

In his arms she quickly turned to stone; within a heartbeat, she fell back upon him like drifts of sand, softly falling back down upon him in a sweet, gentle rain of grace.  Her hips pumped in time to the rhythm of her rolling orgasm; head flung back, buried deep into the sweating crease of Jaime’s clenched arm; he watched her hard nipples dance and shiver through her sleep clothes, he heard her stunning gasps fall gradually into fulfilled sighs.  Eyes slammed shut, her mouth stayed wide open with an endless, unspoken praise.  Eventually, her body fell into a quiet hum even though the flesh between her legs trembled and thrummed like a distant roll of thunder.  It was then she realized that she had slammed her sweating thighs together upon Jaime’s wonderful hand.  

It was absurd; she had started to feel ashamed.  She had never felt so dissected...so exposed before.  She never imagined she would ever share such an intimate experience with anyone...never mind with someone she loved.  Twisting her head within Jaime’s cradling arm, she wearily tried to fumble for a blanket to cover her.  With an opposing grunt, Jaime stilled her seeking hand into his own, he wouldn’t allow her; he still wanted to see everything that he permitted himself to see.

Stilling her hand, he folded her left arm so it lay curled upon her chest.  He had to feel her once more.  As her breathing started to return to normal he gently slipped his fingers back inside of her; he wanted this feeling to be burned into his memory.  Slowly, he traced a lazy pattern of circles over her sugar spun lips.  Still feeling too sensitive, Brienne tried to still his hand with a sigh that was supposed to be a plea; he continued his delicate traces until the hard aftershock of a fresh orgasm began to rattle through her thighs and chest once more.  Panting, marveling at all that he had done to her body; Brienne slowly blinked opened her wide blue eyes.  When she looked up, she no longer saw Jaime Lannister in their bed; she looked up and saw a beautiful, starving beast instead.

His eyes were unblinking; his lips were wide open and panting.  With an exhausted smile she closed her eyes with satisfaction before she felt his mouth crashed down upon hers.     

Coming together, wrapped tight into each other’s shaking arms, they lost each other in their kiss with tempered groans and whimpering words of tenderness.  Feeling tempted to lift up his sleeping clothes and making Brienne a maiden no longer, Jaime slowly rolled their entwined bodies so they could rest upon their sides to face one another.  Deliberately slowing their kisses, Jaime pulled back to smile at Brienne as he cock ached for the tight embrace of home.

Brienne finally locked her eyes back up at Jaime's once his heavy breaths started to grow ragged. With a shy smile, Brienne looked down at Jaime's hardened member and felt her courage begin to grow with halting words.

"I-I've always wanted to know...w-what does it feel like?  For men..."  Still so shy, Brienne still could not speak of Jaime's erection directly; making only gentle allusion to it had been the extent of her comfort. Noticing a slow confusion bind his eyebrows together, Brienne chanced a glance down between Jaime's legs and finally looked back up at him again in anticipation. Finally comprehending her delicate question, Jaime huffed out a sloppy laugh between gasping breaths once he understood Brienne's timid query.

"Wench..."  

Melted by his term of affection, Brienne cupped her hand to Jaime's sweat bloomed face as she kissed his mouth. Staring back down at his tented arousal with need, Brienne looked back up at him, delighting in the sound of his lust and laughter rolled into one.

"How does it feel?"  She nodded her head; lazy blonde curls fell into her eyes. He used his hand to push her hair from out of her face before he kissed her back again. Jaime started to wrack his brain with a bemused curiosity; he tried to figure out how to explain such a thing to such an innocent...still just a maiden. An analogy finally materialized in his scrambling thoughts.

"How does it feel...?”  His voice trailed as her mouth started to trail kisses on his earlobe.

_Oh gods..._

"It feels like...have you ever slammed your finger into a drawer... or in a doorway?"  Brienne nodded again as her kisses started to wind down his flushed neck. "It feels like that. That throbbing...that swollen, throbbing feeling you get. And the only way to make it better...is to wrap your hand _tight_ around it."  She kissed his other ear now. He gasped. "Or stick it in your mouth.   _Anything._ Anything...just to soothe that throb...to try to ease that swelling that begins to burn your mind."  

Jaime felt Brienne's kisses grow slow and hesitant; they had begun to falter once he had said "...your mouth."  She was not an oblivious child; she knew what it was to have a woman wrap her mouth around a man's cock. Camp followers among Renly's host were a frequent sight in every darkened corner, even between shady trees and candlelit tents. She knew most men favored having their cocks sucked rather than performing anything more intimate in a camp settlement. In such scandalous moments, Brienne always played the part of the blushing maiden well, but still...thoughts would linger.  She couldn't help but wonder if she would ever enjoy performing such a vulgar act on a man.

But suddenly...the notion didn't seem so vulgar when she only thought of Jaime. To imagine her mouth wrapped around him in such a vulnerable and trusting way...the curiosity was starting to become an enticing notion for Brienne; but still, it was too much, too soon. She may want to do those things to her Jaime...but she wasn't ready.  Not yet.

Sensing her panic, knowing she must have assumed he was requesting for Brienne to take him in her mouth, Jaime pulled his face away from her blushing expression to make her understand.  Suddenly nervous, he laughed deep from his chest with a cocky, almost arrogant ring. It had become a suddenly thrilling notion for him to imagine Brienne performing such a generous act on his body. "I-I didn't…I didn't mean for that to sound like I had wanted you—"

Stopping his fumbling words with a kiss, Brienne quietly murmured to him that she was well aware of what he had meant to say.  With a cleansing sigh, she started to feel a slow, teasing smirk cross her sword slashed lips. Seeing Jaime's grin from her periphery, Brienne looked back up at him with a coy twinkle and replied with a whispery tone.

"It feels like throbbing?"

Jaime nodded anxiously as he could feel Brienne's hands begin a slow trail down his chest.

"A swollen...throbbing?"  With a sharp inhale, Jaime watched the tortuous journey of Brienne's wide and gentle hands as they started to make their slow descent towards his aching manhood.

"Poor Jaime."  His gasping breath bombarded the silence once Brienne finally laid her delicate fingers over the tented arousal of his tunic. "My sweetling."  Using a trailing grace, Brienne started to ghost her calming fingers over the outline of Jaime's erection for a slow, smoldering moment. Wild with gratitude, he looked down to watch his beloved’s fingers touched him on his most delicate flesh.  Just as his eyes fell shut and his lips began to part with a sigh of contentment, Brienne snuck her hands beneath his sleeping clothes and exposed his needing flesh to the cool air of the room.

Snapping his eyes wide open, Jaime barely had time to see what was happening before he could see Brienne's glorious hands fall upon his twitching, weeping cock.  A wild moan washed over Brienne's ears; she loved every treble, every octave that crashed around her.

His cock was a lush, coral pink that drove her mad with a curious wanting. Taking his heated flesh into her fluttering hands at last, Brienne marveled how soft and velvety it was; his organ was a beautiful contradiction that had condensed everything that she had loved about Jaime in this moment: He was hard and relentless; primal and arrogant; natural and offensive; seeking and needing. He also was delicate and soft; tender and lovely.  Complexly sweet and impossibly tender; perfectly strange and oddly beautiful.

As her palms wrapped around his warm, silken flesh, Brienne watched in fascination as the veins in his manhood seemed to dance to the pressure her hands offered. With only the lightest of squeezes, Jaime buried his fingers deep into Brienne's waist and moaned out with a guttural pitch from his soul.  He begged her to kiss him.  

Swallowing his kisses with a fevered gasp, Brienne slowly opened her eyes to see as Jaime frantically led her hand to the tip of his dripping cock. She watched with fascination as he guided her to smear his precum along the palm of her right hand. She started to pant once more when she heard the low growl emanating from the back of his throat as his dark green eyes locked onto hers. Possessed with a need to see everything, Brienne awkwardly sat up in the bed to kneel at his side; straddling his right thigh with the lavish spread of her humming wet cunt she reveled in the hot gasp from Jaime’s stunned mouth. With love and trust and a dry inhale, Brienne allowed for Jaime to use his hand to guide hers over his hardened flesh, finally guiding her over his twitching cock with one long, smooth stroke.

With a hoarse, choking groan, Jaime slammed his eyes shut as his one hand held tight onto Brienne’s. Again, she dragged her hands up and down the length of him as his lower jaw hung wide open; his babbling voice gushed out in a soft, murmuring praise. Riding his leg with a small roll of her hips, Brienne started to gasp along with him.

Brienne had no idea of what she was doing. Sometimes she would see men in Renly's host tugging at themselves, all the while assuming that she would remain oblivious of such un-maidenly things.  One time she overheard the brash talk between two soldiers that were keen to discuss things about a tavern whore who once serviced them; in vivid detail, Brienne remembered all of the strange things the soldiers had enjoyed.

She decided to try one of the things she had overheard that day. Brienne started to feel another orgasm beginning to rise between her shaking legs; her jaw fell slack as her eyes finally slammed shut.  With a deep breath, she removed her left hand from Jaime's guiding hand to cup his balls.  With eyes split wide open in surprise he looked down as Brienne fondled his sac delicately; with a genuine amazement for how soft they were, Brienne grazed and weighed them in her palm with feather soft caresses, delicately teasing them at the base; stunned, Jaime remained speechless in the roll of his overwhelming wave of arousal; he could not look away from Brienne's perfect hands.

Watching her gently fold over his swollen flesh, he felt the air leave his body with every sigh he created. Loving all of the sounds he would make, Brienne started to push his erection closer to his stomach as she slowly started to grind her hips into his leg, all the while stroking him just so she could touch his balls more thoroughly.

_Even Cersei did not do this..._

Her hands were slow and her fingers still shook with both want and fear, but she loved him and she wanted to love his body the same way he had loved hers. With nervous glances up towards his face, Jaime would groan out like a starved animal whenever their eyes made contact.  Her breathing had started to shudder; his stomach began to sink and swell with readiness. The cords in his throat started to tighten as his head began to arch over his chest to watch everything that Brienne was doing to him.

Between needy murmurs of her name, Jaime watched as Brienne started to frown with concentration while she used her thumb to circle the tip of his blush red cock with a clumsy, uneven pressure. Feeling his balls tighten impossibly close to his body he knew he was close. Through hooded lids he watched Brienne look down at him when a seemingly innocuous thing had occurred; from the corner of her mouth, Jaime saw Brienne quickly lick her lip with focused determination. With that innocent flash of pink tongue from her mouth, Jaime forcefully came into Brienne's hands with a strangled, fulfilling groan.

Thick ropes of pearly white spray erupted between Brienne's shaking fingers. Startled, her hands stilled; she wrapped her second hand around her other that had twined with Jaime's; the warm, sticky fluid started to pool over both of their fingers. Choking upon his moans, Jaime's hand guided Brienne's hands back to continue stroking him as he still came.  Eventually he stilled her; sprays of his seed were splattered across his stomach and on the front of Brienne's tunic.

She was almost terrified to let him go; his hand was still wrapped tightly around hers.  Part of her was scared for whatever may happen next; part of her simply didn't want to let him go.

Panting in a haze of her primal greed, Brienne felt her shame leisurely burned away as she slowly dragged her swollen clit over Jaime's knee, again and again until a harsh, guttural moan tumbled from her gasping mouth. Jaime watched her slowly melt her trembling body over his waist with a shuddering breath and wide, unblinking eyes. Exhausted from his spent arousal, he wished he had the strength left in his body to fuck her hard until the entire world had burned away.  

Murmuring her name with words of his love, he felt her breathing slowly go back to normal as his right arm stroked over the back of her sweaty hair.  Unclenching his sticky, cooling hand from Brienne's hands, Jaime began to search for a rag he kept tucked near his bed.  Brienne slowly composed herself with a trace of shame; he stroked her thigh with his right arm, Jaime smiled up at her with a longing to kiss her; he loved the feeling of her strong body straddling his like this.

Cleaning her still fists, Jaime gently pried them apart with labored breaths as the soft rag started to dry off her shuddering palms. Wordlessly, she delicately removed the towel from him; Brienne began to gently clean him off in turn. Sinking his body deep back into the soft bed, Jaime was almost moved to tears as he watched this giant woman, his perfect wench, clean him off with such loving and gentle care. Finished, she slowly lowered his tunic back over his tender flesh before she curled up around him.

Stretching his long legs like a well sunned cat, Jaime felt his face melt back into his beloved’s flushed chest as she held him close to her; sated, Brienne encompassed her trembling arms around his drowsy head with silent gratitude. Feeling pleasantly drained, blissfully at peace, Jaime closed his eyes as he buried wet kisses onto Brienne's skin.  Stroking his hair, the Maid still felt stunned and effervescent by what had just happened. They had given each other love and pleasure and she had remained a maiden. Feeling drowsy as well, she curled her body into his as sleep began to claim her.

Jaime tried to look up at Brienne with an almost bashful glance.  Burying his forehead to her chest once more, he listened to the beautiful lull of her strong heartbeat. Her skin was warm, her breathing was calm and she was alive and well, wrapped tight in his arms.  Trying desperately not to remember the day he watched her die at Hollow Hill, Jaime kissed her skin once more, promising himself desperately that he would never lose her again.  With a thick lump in his throat he squeezed his eyes shut with fear and love while he whispered almost indecipherably.

" _I love you so much._ "

Brienne stroked his hair once more as she clutched his head closer to her chest; she returned his love with a strong, clear voice.

"I love you too."

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

The Small Council meeting had concluded with a fragile sense of optimism. With half of the treasury collected by the Tyrell's, the crown was able to pay a sizeable percentage of the debt owed to the Iron Bank; combined that with enforcement of new export taxes, the crown was on schedule to have their debts paid off within a few years’ time.

Stepping out of the chambers behind the throne room, the regent was pleased to see Brienne with her father as they mingled with other lords and ladies; Brienne had looked extremely uncomfortable even with her beloved Oathkeeper strapped to her side.

With a slowing of his steps, Jaime couldn't help but remember the story Selwyn told him about the time they both met as children. He wished he remember that day; he wished he remembered that moment. All he could recollect from his return to King's Landing following his knighthood was all of the hungry glances he made at his willing and able sister. He watched Brienne now from across the court; the sunlight from behind her lit up her staggering form, making her appear somehow powerful yet fragile all at the same time.

With a quick glance downwards he looked down at the cool marble floor beneath her. She had cast no shadow.

Jaime had noticed, however, he made every effort not to think about it. He willing chose to ignore it; he feared the more he acknowledged it, the more he would have to consider her miraculous rebirth...which would also mean he would be forced to remember death as well. Her life was too precious to him now, he didn't want to waste any more time dwelling on the past; part of him went away inside whenever he saw her shadowless form. Raising his eyes back towards her face he was a little surprised to see her staring back at him. There was a faint blush and a nervous look in her eyes.

Though Brienne was well known all throughout the capitol for her defeat of Ser Robert Strong, she was still not accepted among the masses for her considerable feats. Once her helm had been knocked off and her gender had been revealed, all cheered for her victory when she was opposed to Robert Strong; but once the queen had died and the dust had begun to settle, people began to digest hard facts, and of course, most had returned to their insulting, dismissive remarks.

Outrage among the nobles consisted of disgust for having a proper lord's daughter fight as champion for the faith. Amongst the commoners, she was still dismissed and labeled as a 'hideous freak' in spite of her courageous fighting and incredible win.  As she walked among the halls of the Red Keep, she always received with proper courtesies and bridled praise, however she still saw how uncomfortable she made them all, she could always see a faint look of disgust in their eyes; for all that she had done to protect the realm she could still hear the word 'freak' whispered in the shadows behind her back. Though Brienne dismissed it all, she still felt pain in its rude wake; she didn't dare tell Jaime, she knew how he would react. Still, like always, Brienne soldiered on.

As he made his way towards Brienne in the social miasma of the royal court, he couldn't help but remember the morning they shared together. The taste of her mouth, her breathy moans, the beautiful expression on her face as she peaked in his arms; how her blue eyes shined up at him when she touched him, stroked him, rode him.  The sound of Selwyn Tarth's voice thundering in the court, it quickly gave Jaime pause to any of those warm thoughts he had started to entertain. Stepping forward to stand across from Brienne, he found himself next to Lord Selwyn and a well-known lord of a minor house; Jaime started to grow flush and shifted his eyes nervously at her father's proximity; Brienne started to smile.  

"...simply remarkable.  It's astounding how many field medics simply fail to assess that a wounded soldier is in a coma; to think, he announced that she was _dead_."

"Agreed!  I had a soldier from Tarth once tell me he was nearly buried alive during the War of the Ninepenny Kings; how careless those medics can--Ser Jaime!  It's an honor to see you."  Selwyn's tone was certainly more formal and stylized in a royal court setting; he was making efforts to protect Brienne against foul rumors; the most prevalent rumor as of late had been that she had somehow died in the Riverlands.  Jaime didn't mind lying to strangers, but he felt bad for perpetuating falsehoods with the Lord of Evenfall.

"The honor is mine, Ser. Any excuse to keep me away from the small council is more than an honor for me. Lady Brienne..."  Jaime heard his voice drop into a smooth octave; Brienne muttered a polite reply; with a nervous fidgeting with her hands she flushed like the maiden that she still was.  With a slight falter to her voice Brienne continued with proper courtesies; Lord Selwyn glanced between his daughter and the regent with a curious expression on his face.

"Ser Jaime, my lord father was speaking to Lord Furlong about the false claims of my death. _It_ _appears_ there has been a good deal of rumors surrounding my name since I had been found in a coma."

Jaime nodded with an uncomfortable laugh; he recalled how much gold he had to pay to purchase the silence of any soldier who confirmed the death of Lady Brienne on that terrible day at Hollow Hill.  Ser Addam Marbrand was excellent in helping Jaime keep all of the wild rumors to a minimum as well.

"Seems no matter where a noble warrior goes, both legend and foul rumor cling to their heels like the stink of shit with every step they take."

Brienne felt her cheeks grow flush with a nervous dart of her eyes once she saw a slight smile cross her father's face. Jaime had to be alone with her.

"My Lord: Would you be as kind as for allowing me the privilege to accompany your daughter on a stroll through the Red Keep?  I was told that the Lady Brienne was keen on seeing the royal library; I thought she wouldn't mind having me escort her for a private tour."

Brienne had never expressed a wish to see the royal library. In spite of the flimsy excuse, Selwyn of Tarth quirked up his sandy blond and silver brows with amusement before blessing their departure with a warm smile. "Brienne has been looking forward to it all morning, Ser Jaime."  With a surprised look in her eyes Brienne feigned agreement; she had never been a cool fibber.

Taking Jaime's chivalrous arm felt both lovely yet strange to Brienne; they had shared themselves in the most intimate way only this morning, but to share even the slightest touch in court had been terrifying for her. With a respectful nod, Jaime and Brienne had readied to depart before the regent spoke with a final pleasantry. "We must have dinner soon, my Lord Selwyn."  

Selwyn's face lit with a great smile. "It would be my honor, Ser Jaime."

With a brief look towards her, Jaime motioned for her to follow his lead. "My lady?"

Choked with nerves, Brienne lowered her head as Jaime led her out of the throne room;  all eyes of court were on them as they took their leave as a soft murmuring began to rise towards the vaulted rafters of the Red Keep.

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

Winding along dusty halls and gloomy stairwells, Jaime made polite discussion with Brienne as they remained in public view of servants and nobility.  The regent pointed out fine tapestries and lavish mosaics, Brienne pretended to sound interested as she longed to wrap her lips around Jaime’s ears again.  Finally, they made their way to the dark and silent confines of the sacred library of the Red Keep.  Heavy dark wood paneling made the large and winding room appear deceptively cozy and snug.  Some students from the Citadel were pouring over rare scrolls in a far off corner with a roaring fireplace nearby.  

Jaime led Brienne to a wide, glass lined hall that connected the library to the cool, dark cellars that would preserve the precious scrolls for safe keeping. Knowing this would be one of the places where it would be silent and private, Jaime sat Brienne onto the stone ledge of a windowsill to the great glass windows behind her.  Bathed in the warm pull of winter sunlight, Jaime looked down at her with a lovely peace in his heart.  Looking up at him, Brienne smiled as she held onto his hand.  With a glance downwards, a slight frown began to form as she stared at the ink stain on his ring finger.  Touching it with her thumb, she spoke up.

"I wanted to ask you about this."

Murmuring with a smile, Jaime started to tease Brienne.  "So why didn't you?"

A bright flash of pink stained her cheeks.  Glancing around them, Brienne countered with an almost pointed glare and a wicked grin.  "I’m sorry; we were...we were otherwise... engaged."

With a faint smile, Brienne watched as Jaime's bright, lively eyes turned dark with a fresh need. Looming his face close to hers, Brienne felt her eyelids grow heavy as her breathing began to turn thin.  Just as the sound of Jaime's hum started to fill her ears she felt a lovely tremble roll up her neck as his warm breaths started to bathe her blushing face.  His voice turned suggestive with a slow, cat like grin.

"Were we?"

Speaking in a low voice that Brienne had only heard in their bed, she felt a small groan trying to form at the back of her throat before his mouth finally fell upon hers.

Under the warm sunlight streaming through the great library windows, Brienne tipped her head further back up as Jaime stepped closer to her seated form. As their kiss deepened, Brienne could feel the cool flush of the windowpane behind her as Jaime leaned her further back into it.  In the distance, Brienne heard a heavy door slam; fearing exposure, she quickly pulled her mouth away from his. Holding back a frustrated sigh, Jaime looked over towards the direction of the offending door before he sat down next to Brienne on the low windowsill.  Wetting his thumb with his mouth, Jaime tried to rub out the ink stain still on his finger; as he glanced around their heads, searching for anyone that might interrupt them, he felt certain they were finally alone. Keeping his eyes downcast, Jaime let out a heavy sigh before he continued, quietly.

"I was feeling...despondent with Prewitt's findings from the examination last night. I had wanted to fill in my entry for the White Book...and I then remembered I no longer had a right to; I'm no longer the Lord Commander."  For a while, Jamie paused; his eyes started to glaze with distant memories.  "It didn't really sink in for me until that very moment.  By then it felt like I was losing everything.  Well... _almost_ everything."

He chanced a wry smile at Brienne's direction. Moved by his words, the Maid leaned her weight into Jaime's side; feeling playful, he leaned back at her with a wide smile.  Staring at him from the corner of her eyes Brienne considered giving him a chaste peck on his lips before she saw one of Jaime’s squires quickly approach them.  Glancing over towards what she was looking at, he mumbled almost disdainfully.

"What fresh hell is this?"

Jaime's squire, Peck, walked with an exaggerated speed through the quiet halls of the revered library.  Approaching them with a faint voice, the young lad spoke as if he had been running long before he entered the library.

"Ser Jaime. Your presence is requested in the grand maester's quarters,"

With a grumble of annoyance, Jaime dismissed his squire; glancing at Brienne with a roll of his eyes he stood from the stone window ledge and tried to drag her up to stand with him.

"Come.  I've spent far too much time away from you today."

"Jaime. The grand maester only sent for _you_."

Shrugging with a crooked grin, Jaime tried to ease Brienne's worries with an almost dismissive laugh. "I'm the king's regent. If I wanted to shave a goat and dress it in robe and chain, I could appoint it the grand maester and no one could say anything about it."

Holding back an amused huff, Brienne stared at him only for a beat before she smiled back at him. " _Oh yes_ , that would not make you seem quite mad."

"Mad as it may seem, a shaved goat would have been of far more use to the realm then _Pycelle_ ever was."

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

He held her hand once they made their way to the empty corridors leading to maester Prewitt's chambers.  Extracting her hand from his reluctantly, Jaime entered the private chamber without announcement.

Expressing no surprise to find the Lady Brienne standing at the regent's side, the thin maester with the silvery hair and piercing blue eyes allowed them entry into his study without question.  Faintly motioning them to be seated he closed and bolted the door with an almost conspiratorial air.

"I have just received a raven this morning; from _Dorne_. As you've may of heard, the bloody flux has been plaguing Meereen for some time now. It has now been confirmed in Dorne as well. As of now the southernmost regions of realm have only been affected; the Salt Shore, Lemonwood--”  

Feeling a faint buzz grow in his ears, Jaime interrupted the maester. "The princess Myrcella...is she--."

Prewitt closed his eyes with a calming gesture with his hands as he took his seat behind his desk. "I have received confirmation that your niece is not afflicted, Ser; I wanted to tell you in private because once word of the bloody flux spreads in King's Landing, pandemonium may ensue."  

Confused, Brienne spoke up with some doubt. "There have been cases of the flux in King's Landing before.  I don't understand--"

The maester regretfully cut Brienne off before she could finish.  "The plague from Mereen has proven to be far deadlier than the likes of which King's Landing has ever seen."

Jaime felt his hand search to hold Brienne's as they remained seated; she squeezed his hand back.  A lead weight filled the regent's gut with an almost sickening wave of fear.

"The bannermen...I had ordered houses from Dorne to set a march for Highgarden.  Once those men reach the Rose Road...."

"I have spoken to Ser Addam; the bannermen you had ordered to march were sent from the northernmost parts of Dorne, Ser; Blackmont, Wyl and Kingsgrave. With your permission I'd like to send a raven to the commanding officers there; any soldier found to be ill shall be separated from the rest of his men until skilled maesters are sent to treat them."

Though Prewitt seemed confident, Jaime was incredulous; he was far too familiar with the minds of arrogant soldiers.  With the heady mix of blind ego, ignorance and the lust for fame on the battlefield, he knew that not even a fever could keep most men away from the call of duty. "No, we need to stop them wherever they are until we are certain they are not ill.  If the Dornish bannermen are infected then the entire host could be contaminated within days."  The maester nodded his head in agreement as he started to write notes in an old ledger he always kept on him.  "What can be done about the princess?  Can she be returned to King's Landing before the flux spreads to Sunspear?"

"We can return Princess Myrcella home by ship; but she will need to be assessed _before_ boarding and _after_ her arrival, Ser Jaime. There is no point in having her return home if she is to end up spreading the disease to the whole capital."  

_My daughter...my sweet girl._

Brienne nervously glanced at Jaime as he clenched his jaw with a grim exhale through his nostrils.  Silent for a moment, the regent worried his lower lip with his teeth before he continued. "What of His Grace?  What is to be done to protect him?"

"His Grace is safe for now. I'll have those who are in direct contact with him to be evaluated twice a day to make certain they are not ill."  Jaime nodded his head with approval; Prewitt continued. "Should the flux spreads to King's Landing...we will need to consider precautions and find a safe place to evacuate the king for as long as the plague resides."  

Perplexed, Brienne spoke with a quick glance towards Jaime. "For how long do you think it would take for the flux to run its course?"

With a deep sigh, the maester leaned back in his chair and spoke with a weary sigh. "If the plague were to ravish Westeros, the gods forbid King's Landing...it could be years--might even be as long as ten before I would feel safe enough to have the king return to his throne at the Red Keep."

Jaime almost sounded disgusted with his shock. "And where would he rule?" A fragile hope began to take root in the Maid as she spoke up with a delicate optimism.

"He would be safe on Tarth."  Jaime stared at Brienne as if she had just spoken in High Valyrian; keeping her eyes steady on Prewitt, she continued. "There is a smaller island on the eastern coast of Tarth, a small island called Morne; we have only a few inhabitants there, more ruined castles than people really; no ships are permitted to dock there without my lord father's leave."

"Morne would be ideal for quarantine measures, my lady."  Brienne started to feel relief with a fragile pride; Jaime stared at her with a blank expression.  "Anyone who may be infected _must_ reside on Morne for one month before they are granted permission to move onto the main isle of Tarth."  Prewitt sounded pleased by this.  "Have Lord Selwyn send word to Tarth.  We must monitor the health of those who reside on Morne; we need to be certain it remains safe to receive his Grace and the Princess should anything happen. With you and your father's permission, I will send for some maesters to land on the island in order to make preparations should the worst happen."

With Brienne at his side, Jaime felt frozen with possibilities.  Maester Prewitt was busy scribbling notes in his ledger, Brienne squeezed his clammy hand with concern.

_This is really happening._

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Numb with the shock of their meeting with the Grand Maester, Jaime was desperate to speak to Brienne.  Not able to wait until they returned to their room in the White Sword Tower, Jaime led his Wench outside to a remote alcove that was dressed in snow and sparkled with frozen leaves and still budding winter roses.

Pacing in the small recess with a stunned face, Jaime ran his fingers through his hair as he felt his chest tighten with anxiety.  Worried, Brienne stood directly in his blinding pathway; blinking back a glazed look in his eyes he looked at Brienne as if she were a specter before he reached out for her.  Wrapping his arms tightly around her, she held him tight as he buried his face into her neck.

Both knew that most of the walls in the Red Keep had ears; with her ear close to his mouth, Jaime whispered to her his panic in a worried, bated breath.

"I can send out bannermen to protect the crownlands and uphold the King's peace, I can sentence for the execution for convicted traitors against his Grace; I can go to war and fight battles to defend those that I love.  How can I protect my children from a plague?  What armor exists to defend against such terror?"

Brushing her cooling fingers into his golden hair at the nape of his head, Brienne murmured her reply with chapped lips. "You mustn't despair.  Your daughter will be home soon; should the worst happen, Tarth will protect your children."  Jaime squeezed her tighter with his arms once she had finally said those words.  "Should the plague fall upon the capital, all you can do is hope for the best but to prepare for the worst."

He pulled his face away from her neck once she had finished speaking. With a slightly confused look on his face, Jaime made a deliberate effort to correct her thinking.  " _We_ , wench.   _We_ mustn't despair.  I'm... I am no longer a whole man without you."  Brienne bowed her face low between them; staring down at his boots buried deep into the powdery snow, she looked back up him with a bright flush of a pink bloom on her cheeks.  "Without you there is nothing left of me but a walking shadow."

Touched by his confession, Brienne tried not to grimace once she heard him compare himself only to a mere shade.

"You have protected your son's throne. You are working to prevent a famine for the coming winter. You are making great strides to paying off the crown debt.  You were _not_ a walking shadow."

A hard sigh crystallized into the frozen air between them; Jaime shook his head; he needed to make her understand. Feeling almost desperate he spoke to her in a firm, almost growling tone. "I did it all for you, Brienne.   _Everything_. I could have thrown my life away in a skirmish against the Brotherhood sympathizers like I had wanted..."  Brienne glanced up at his determined expression with a stunned look on her wounded face.  Seeing her confusion and pain he continued his thought with more gentle words.  "I had returned to the Red Keep to protect my son; I had chosen to _live_ because of you."

The frozen air surrounding them had started to turn thin with the sharp bite of a yawning winter's evening. Far off in the distance Brienne could see the sky turn into a bleeding wash or brilliant oranges and glittering pinks. The tops of the gilded towers surrounding them started to shine like burnished copper and glow with lustrous, rosegold light. Inside of the glittering, frost-bitten alcove, Brienne had started to feel enchanted; for one silly moment she allowed herself to dream the foolish hope for spring.

In spite of the rather dismissive tone for his own life, Jaime began to regret the words once he saw her blue eyes gather with unshed tears.  He didn't want to upset her, he had only meant to tell her how lost he had been without her. With a thick inhale of the winter air, Brienne quickly wiped away one rebellious tear before she could choke out a hot word from her burning throat.  Feeling a need to right his wrongdoings, Jaime slowly reached for her hand as he jerked his head towards an icy pathway that led out of the alcove.

"Come. Give me your hand."

A watery smile crossed the Maid's battle scarred cheek. "Are...are we headed back to the bedroom?" Jaime felt a silent laugh pull out of his chest; shaking his head dolefully his smile grew even wider.

"Do you trust me?"

"Always."

Jaime felt his heart twist with Brienne's unwavering faith in him.  Pausing for only a moment, he reached for her hand with a soft sigh before he spoke again in a teasing whisper.

"Then follow me."

Holding his hand tight into her own, Brienne felt how warm, how strong he was now.  She felt her heart thunder with a silent, almost terrifying joy. She had nothing to fear when Jaime stood by her side; so she looked at his hand, felt her world fall into place and held on to him tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...so! Smut. How...how did I do?


	16. Carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swords are crossed; King's Landing says 'farewell' to the queen; a sword is given as a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellloooooo!
> 
> It's been ten days...I apologize for the delay; I am moving right now.  
> Arrogantly, I had assumed that I would manage to find the time to write,  
> edit and publish, all the while, turning my little world upside down. That obviously  
> didn't happen. Updates will be more prompt now...thank you so much for  
> reading and commenting and for all of the kudos! I am so happy to have you all still;  
> I do hope you keep reading. Your support has been amazing, uplifting and frankly,  
> I still can't believe how lucky I am to have all of you. Thank you! : )

The title for this chapter is named after a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/Carnal-apple-Woman-filled-burning-moon) if you're interested.

 

 

 

 

"Are you sure?"

Brienne looked down at the frost glazed stones beneath their feet. Surrounding the practice yard under the light of a dozen torches, she could see frozen crystals on the stone floor sparkle and dance under the gloaming light of the nearby flames. With Oathkeeper in her hand she felt so alive and vibrant; with Jaime Lannister standing across from her, holding his own sword with a fighting stance, she felt an awkward need to confirm once more that this was indeed, what he really, truly wanted.

With a deep sigh of impatience, Jaime rolled his eyes with a flash of annoyance before a crooked smile crossed his face.  "Again: Yes... _wench_."

Evaluating the crushed ice beneath her boots the Maid sharply glanced back up at her opponent with a slight curl of offense crossing her lips; the way he said ' _wench_ ' had an almost sinister twist to it. To her it had become obvious what he was doing; he was intentionally provoking her.  Adjusting her grip on her beautiful sword, Brienne felt the leather from her gloves tighten as she made a slight twisting, squeaking sound come from them; feeling her grip grow firmer around the pommel of her blade she watched Jaime's bright eyes fall steady upon hers.  This was indeed what he wanted, and what was more, he was ready.

Shortly after Jaime and Brienne had left the grand maester's chambers they held each other in the confines of a secluded alcove to speak in private.  It was then Brienne understood how truly anxious, how incredibly vulnerable Jaime had been in that moment. He felt almost desperate; the threat of the bloody flux, his need to protect his children at all costs...he felt useless and adrift; but in the end, as Brienne held him close and made a vow to protect his children, it was then that Jaime began to realize what it was what he truly wanted most of all.  

It was in that dark moment Jaime understood how fortunate, how blessed he was to now have Brienne back in his life once more. Clutching onto her like a bobbing, empty wine barrel in a storm tossed sea, Jaime somehow felt centered and whole; he was capable of seeing a future where hope could reside so long as he didn't let her go.

Renewed with love and clinging to a fragile tendril of a budding hope, Jaime felt an overwhelming need to regain some sense of control in his life. News of the plague, the revelation of his sister's botched murder, his retirement from the Kingsguard, fear for his daughter, the betrayal of the Tyrell's, Tommen's many losses... it all felt like it was too much.  Looking down at Brienne he saw Oathkeeper still bound to her side. An idea had crossed his mind; he would burn through all of this anger and all of the fear that he still felt...and he would finally prove to Brienne, once and all, that he was more than capable of becoming her Warrior once more.

With a tight grip on her hand he led her down the corridors of the Red Keep to spar in the practice yard nearby the stables. His blood had a hunger for the ring of steel, and what better opponent for he than his stubborn, brave wench.  

Shifting her weight beneath the frozen stone floor again, Brienne's eyes swept the training yard to see if she could find any icy patches that may hinder a fair fight. Huffing with readiness in the frosted air, the regent lifted his sword to signal that he was ready to finally dance with his partner. With a curt nod she silently accepted: She too was ready.

And so it began; a rounded, smooth sweep of the practice yard commenced between one man and one woman, silently bound together with a graceful, almost methodical distance always teased between the two of them. As ice and sleet crunched beneath their careful steps, Brienne made every effort to withhold her facial expressions before she finally met him with the first blow. Sweeping high with a lean, efficient slice, her sword crossed their distance and in towards Jaime's side. With a smashing clang his blade met hers; she was relieved.

Though he had changed in some ways since her death and resurrection, she still knew that the arrogant shade of a lion still twitched inside of Jaime's heart and mind.  Brienne still felt a great shame for her betrayal of him during her confrontation with the Brotherhood without Banners.  She hadn't known Jaime had been training since she had left King's Landing on a quest to restore his honor in the name of Sansa Stark. All she knew then was how hopeless she had felt; how desperate she had been, to not only save Ser Hyle and Podrick’s life, but of the life of the man she loved as well. Though she hated herself for hurting Jaime and locking him away from her fight against the Brotherhood she felt prepared to sacrifice her own so that he may live instead.  But now, here he stood; practiced and skilled, willing and eager.  With his sharp swing of his blade Brienne felt like she had witnessed the rebirth of the man she first fell in love with.  

Lively and bright, he was lean and starved for a true exchange of blows; his eyes locked on hers as he paced and swept his blade, leading and following her every move like a near perfect reflection in a still and clear pond. For one moment Brienne felt a sudden chill run down her back; she realized that Jaime was a starved hunter, and his eyes were set solely upon his only prey.  With a second clash of their blades, Brienne felt herself stagger for a moment before she drove back at him. Thankful for her unrestrained brutality, Jaime smiled.

He had been relieved that Brienne was holding nothing back from their sparring; in her eyes he did not find any pity, worry or embarrassment from her, instead he saw the same stubborn flashes of calculation, strategy and insolence that  he saw in her from the last time they had fought.

Huffing out a small bark of laughter, Jaime watched her circle him once with steely eyes before he let his blade fly back down at her. She marked his strike with her own; steel hummed and trilled before their slicing blades finally scraped apart. Anxious to proceed, he thrusted from above, he thrusted from below; relentless, ravishing and repeating. Again and again, tirelessly, their blades clattered and sparked; the entire world could not touch them now, everything in their lives melted away into their own beautiful, vibrant and lethal dance. Once more, Jaime swept his sword across the air, down through the icy winds and across to sweep down towards Brienne's upper thigh; to her amazement, she was able to keep his blade from her leg with only inches to spare. Their eyes locked; a scowl of concentration crossed her face, he in turn smiled with ecstasy. Keeping her arm firm and steady she held his sword back just as Jaime stepped closer towards her panting mouth as he spoke to her in a warm, clear voice.

"Marry me."

Brienne gasped; feeling a sharp draw of air leave her body she chose to dismiss what she thought she had just heard; she blamed the wind, she blamed her intrusive thoughts, she also considered that it was someone else who had said those words nearby.  But they were all alone.  With a strong sweep back up to keep his sword away, Brienne finally managed to retreat as their blades rang out along with a glittering choir of crunching ice and stinging metal.

The Maid followed the deadly sweep of the regent's flashing sword; twisting her blade downwards, she finally met his next blow with a satisfying crash.  For some reason she had a hard time keeping his strike back once his eyes found hers this time. A sweet ring of his steel blended with hers as their song rang out and echoed from the stone walls of the yard surrounding them; the ringing symphony had thrilled them both; a shiver ran down Jaime's spine as Brienne's heart started to flutter and race. Swinging her weight into a counter spin she pulled out of their tangle to confront him once more.

"Brienne: Say you'll be my wife."

Jaime's eyes were clear, steady and determined; they were wide and locked with training, he followed her as she took slow, retreating steps backwards while her chest started to heave.  Quickly glancing down towards her delicate footwork, Jaime could see she was preparing to attack from her right; her eyes were wide and looked impossibly blue against her flushed skin; to his surprise, he found her gaze to be uncertain and darting. Guarding himself, he kept his blade at the ready over his right arm.

_Why won't she answer?_

Lifting her sword back over to defend herself from an attack, Brienne felt her breathing began to heave. The ache of wounds she had endured still lingered from her trial against Ser Robert Strong; muscles burned, bruises still throbbed, cuts had finally begun to crust over and wounds were still tender from being stitched freshly back together.  Though she had fought Jaime with her beloved Oathkeeper, she started to feel a strange, incalculable weight that started to make her falter once a modest smile began to coil across Jaime's lips. Burned from years and years of teases and japes, Brienne started to feel her upper lips snarl as Jaime's lips finally curled into a sweet grin.

" _You're making fun."_

She charged at him.  The blades crashed and rang out over their heads; leaning his weight into his defense, Jaime grimaced as he felt a new strength take over Brienne's arm. Swinging to his right he watched the sparks run down their blades once more before their eyes soon locked.

"There are many things I can say and do to make fun of you Brienne.  I could say you’re a stubborn, lumbering cow of a woman;" Brienne slashed at his side.  “I could remind you that your skull is thicker than a castle wall and that you're bloody impossible to be with.”  Jaime returned her swing with his with a firm strike. “I could have dishonored you in a hundred different ways, at least a thousand separate times since I’ve first known you.”  Keeping his sword away from her chest, Brienne could feel his panted breath dance over her scarred, blushing cheek.  Feeling his eyes bore into hers, she lowered her eyes to watch their blades skim closer towards one another in their tight lock. "But to marry you...to call you ' _my wife_ ' would not be one of them."   

_Oh gods, he’s serious..._

She pulled her blade from their tangle once more; as her face became sterner as Jaime’s face became even brighter by the hope of being joined to her for their entire lives.  Determined, he led the next attack.  

Blades clattered with a sweet sting overhead; with a closing distance between them, the flashing swing of their swords shimmered and shined from the moonlight above.  The flickering torches surrounding the practice yard would have felt almost romantic had there been no blades in hand, no fights to battle, no panic clutching tight at Brienne’s throat.  But, in spite of everything...it had been romantic; though it had been a lethal dance, it was a dance that had had been created for only these two lonely, love starved creatures. In the end, it was a staggeringly beautiful night designed only for them; it was perfectly imperfect.

Suddenly terrified by Jaime's sincerity, Brienne began to pull away from him as he followed her trail around the practice yard; for every strike he made, Brienne followed as well.  She led him to an ivy covered wall that was frosted with crystalline ice while their slashing blows continued to scrape and clatter; he followed her in her path, checking her stroke for stroke.  With every parry and sidestep she made, for each overhand and backhand she countered, Jamie met with her as her equal, blow by blow, thrust by thrust, while his eyes shined bright with newfound mirth.

Panting hard among the glittering vapor that plumed from each breath, Brienne watched Jaime keep his blade on its guard before he threw down another slash to cross their blades once more.  She became rattled and anxious; his smile turned sweet and lively once he finally understood how nervous she had suddenly become.

The last time they fought like this was the last time Jaime had two hands; he had been rotting in a dungeon cell for a year; half starved, weakened and manacled.  Following his final battle, both were captured and had suffered under the cruel treatment of the Bloody Mummers. Somehow, in that extraordinary, horrifying experience, something strange...almost miraculous had happened: Somehow, two broken and wounded souls who always stood outside the walls of acceptance somehow found one another.

In her he found his perfect twin, his truest equal; a woman who had perfectly filled every broken crack that lined the hollows of his bruised and ravaged heart; for all of her impossible honor and unfathomable bravery, she had awoken in him his once lost dream to become a man of honor once more. In him she found a true warrior, a man of honor that all others had been too eager dismissed so long ago; he was her greatest match, her truest equal; a man who've was always been a hero but refused to gather any of the praise he had been entitled to; instead, he held on to the slur of 'oathbreaker' close to his chest as if it were a cloak made of lead that had been bound close to his exhausted shoulders.

Again they circled and clashed, thrusted and defended; together, like this, was how they were meant to be. Nothing else could replace the joy both had felt within this moment. With time, Brienne's fears slowly began to fade as their dance continued; she was too thrilled, too proud of Jaime's relentless practice to feel anything less. With the rush of a second wind, Brienne renewed her efforts in her fight with Jaime.

As swords clashed and clanged, Jaime took a brief step back to momentarily catch his breath, he had been feeling almost giddy with how well matched they had now become; Brienne called out to him with a big grin and a mocking bow; she felt her face crack into a wide smile while she spoke out to him with a heavy breath and a near silent laugh.  

"Come, my dearest! The music still plays; might I have this dance?"

Recalling the sarcastic line Jaime had once said to her while they last fought near Maidenpool, the regent smiled through winter lashed cheeks as he swallowed back a bubbling laughter.  "Only if you will lead, my lady!"

Preparing for his return Brienne felt her face split with a luminous smile behind her steady arm while Jaime began his charge towards her. As their blades shined like slabs of polished mirrors under the bright moonlight, the crack and shudder of their steel rang out like joyful bells for both of them. Sidestepping a small patch of ice near to his right, Jaime quirked an eyebrow as he quickly formulated a plan.

He started to thrust into her; leading her with a calculated charge, Brienne fought back at him as bravely as she ever was.  As their faces turned red with exertion, their mouths began to hang wide open with panting; eyes wide and dilated, skin sweating, Jaime knew that he would finally have her now.  Feeling her lead into his strikes once more, he counted the paces as he stepped backwards until finally, with a sharp clang of his blade upon hers, Brienne felt her sword hand fall loose from Oathkeeper when suddenly...

"Ooof!"

Brienne slipped heartily and landed onto her side with a slick crack as Oathkeeper rumbled and clattered out from her hands and onto the stone floor.  Hissing in pain, she watched as Jaime kneeled down to claim his surrender by her side with his wide grin and a soft laugh rumbling from his chest. As she scrambled and slid once more on the patch of black ice, Jaime started to laugh out loud once he heard Brienne begin to laugh as well. Watching her reach for her blade with the agony of her bruised hip, Jaime fell onto his stomach with laughter as he started to crawl next to her, desperately competing to see who could reach Oathkeeper first.

Feeling his heart thunder and his smile grow wider, Jaime struggled to speak through panting and laughter. Lying on his stomach next to her on the floor he tried to wrestle her arm away.  "Yield!"

"No!"  Brienne objected with an almost choking laughter as her eyes narrowed from their absurd hilarity. "I am a woman of honor; Tarth will never yield!"  

Finally reaching the red Valyrian blade at last, Brienne was ecstatic to feel her gloved hand rest upon the sharp edge of her beautiful sword. Before she could pull the blade closer to her fingers she felt Jaime's hand of flesh fall heavily on top of hers. With a victorious peel of laughing joy, Jaime slapped his hand of gold over his other to finally claim his win. Brienne's second hand soon fell on top of the burning cool of his golden hand just as she dropped her head low to the frosty stones of the practice yard with deep, heaving breaths.

Panting, aching, exhausted and elated, Jaime looked over at the Maid with a wheezing, gasping chortle over his outstretched arms. "Fine. Fine, you stubborn wench!  You may have your precious honor...so long as you say you'll be my wife."

Feeling her lungs burn from exhaustion with every deep gulp of the frigid winter air, Brienne remembered she had once said she would only accept chastisement from a suitor who could defeat her in combat.  Glancing over at him with amazement, Brienne watched Jaime carefully as his bright green eyes started to flash with a vulnerable, almost genuine fear.

_Gods...I love him. Seven save me; I love this great beast of a man._

Closing her eyes against the insecure expression writ on his face, Brienne sighed once as a shy smile spooled over her pink lips. With a deep breath she felt the fingers on her sword begin to grow slack while his hand above hers began to tighten upon her now shaking fingers. She finally spoke to him with a small, almost shy whisper; Jaime almost thought he had been dreaming once he finally heard her speak.

"Yes Jaime...I will be your wife."  His fingers started to grip tight onto hers.  "I will marry you."

The night air was still and the inky black skies above glittered with a countless many stars; too many above shined so high and so bright for them in that single moment. Once Brienne finally raised her face, the look she found in Jaime's eyes was that of a beauty that would rival the most beautiful stars in all of the dazzling skies above.  Startled by her agreement, his face fell slack with doubt before he finally spoke in turn with a hoarse, almost childlike mutter.

"Say that once more."

"I will marry you."  His face stayed blank with an almost strained hearing. " _Yes_...Jaime. My answer to your question is ' _yes_ '; I will be your wife."

Finally allowing for her words to sink in, Jaime's cautious face started to melt into a warm and beaming smile that melted her heart like the glowing, summer rays of a beautiful, blood-orange dawn.

Inching closer towards her face, Jaime felt a raw smile cross his lips as Brienne's face turned beet red with a bright smirk and flashing blue eyes. Lifting her head from her hunched shoulders, she felt an impossible levity fill her heart.

_He loves me._

With the taste of his lips falling upon her own, Brienne felt her smile falter as his kisses became tender and more ardent. In between gasping breaths, Jaime smiled wide with squinted eyes as his laughter echoed and filled the practice yard around them. Slowly pulling his stubborn wench further into his arms, he could hear Brienne's laughter too as the icy winds danced over them and the crunchy sleet beneath their bodies started to cool them both. Neither one could feel the cold however; nothing else existed outside of their warm and loving embrace; they were two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

 

\--------------------------------

 

Early the next morning, shortly before the sun had risen from a onyx blue night, Jaime rode next to his son on horseback in front of the Great Sept of Baelor to say their final farewells to Dowager Queen, Cersei Lannister Baratheon.

Wrapped in wide swaths of black silks and placed into a modest, nondescript wagon, the convicted queen was slipped out of the Lion's Gate with a small retinue, following the same, shameful exit Mace Tyrell had experienced the morning before.

If Cersei had ever shared her thoughts for how she imagined her funeral to be, she never shared them with Jaime. It was with no doubt that his sister never said anything to him because she had always believed that their fates would forever be forever intertwined.  

' _We were brought into this world together.  We will die together.'_

Like any proud Lannister, she had probably imagined an extravagant procession with a thousand soldiers armored in burgundy and gold, leading the long way down the Gold Road towards Casterly Rock. Muffled black drums would have announced their way from miles in every direction while the smoke of holy sensors would linger in the long trail behind them. Horses would have been dressed in blood-black silks, accompanied by praying septons and the sound of silent sisters blending together in mournful harmony while brightly lit, gilded torches embellished their tedious path. Instead of this assumed fantasy, only a dozen guards dressed in neutral colors made a meek and quiet exit as they tried to smuggle the convicted queen out of the city gates without drawing any attention towards themselves.

Though he should have anticipated it, Jaime was dismayed to find a few hundred residents of the capital had assembled to bid _'farewell'_ to their _'beloved'_ queen.  

Men with missing arms and legs, lost from the War of Five King's, spat out with disgust onto the ground wherever the queen's wagon would soon be driving over; women barked out final, blistering insults, some even tried to throw rotten vegetables at the wagon until the Gold Cloaks stopped them; one had been successful, however; a slimy head of lettuce with weepy black leaves hit the wagon near the queen's body with a putrid explosion of vegetation spraying across the back of the cart.  Bright cheers rang out throughout the crowd, piercing the early morning light, as the head of lettuce made its oozing, festering slide. People stuck their heads out of windows above the road, pointing down and sneered and hollering insults at their defenseless queen; callous whores exposed their breasts to men who would look up at them while they cried out bawdy, obnoxious calls, advertising all of the carnal services they could provide; oblivious that a royal funeral procession was in progress, an elderly woman threw out a pot night soil into the street a few feet away from the former queen's wagon.  By the time the small party had finally crossed through the Lion's Gate, the sun had begun to rise as a wide smattering of cheers filled the air from onlookers who stood near at the mouth of the gate.  

Though Jaime had finally, truly let go of the wild, tangled knot of his sister's love, he was still hurt by the callous cheer and malicious joy that so many had expressed for her final departure on that day.  

Glancing over at his son as they quietly rode back to the Red Keep, Jaime carefully studied his blank expression and his mournful silence while a new thread of worry started to bind in his heart. He had something important he needed to speak to him about.

_The poor boy has already lost so much; the man who he thought was his father, his brother, his sister is still in Dorne; his mother, his bride...is there ever really a good time to discuss such matters?_

With a strangled clearing of his voice, Jaime tried his best to begin with what he needed to say.

"Your Grace..."  Tommen watched the road ahead of them with faint interest as his horse straggled through the rotted vegetables that had been thrown earlier; he was lost in thought. "I had wanted to know if you had any plans for dinner this evening."  Tommen slowly turned his head towards his father; his expression was drawn and pale, but his eyes were haunted and dry.

"No, uncle."

Nodding his head with a firm acceptance, Jaime continued his trudging pace with Honor as he allowed for his son's horse to remain one step ahead of him.

They rode on in silence as they slowly made their way back home to the Red Keep.  Most of the city had been awake by then. The smell of fresh bread filled the air while blacksmiths started to ring their steel as sluggish drunkards slowly trudged their way back to their homes with a shameful march in the sobering light of a winter morning's dawn.

Jaime was anxious to return back to the Keep, but he retained his thoughtful pace behind his king. He felt almost desperate to see Brienne.

Though they were newly engaged, both reluctantly agreed that it would be wise not to share a bed that night; following their sparring session, they couldn't keep their hands off of one another. Wet kisses upon her neck, tantalizing fingers trailing far too low down his back; the warm press of their bodies so close together while low grunts and gentle sighs soon filled the armory. Thoughts of her honor and his trailed them both, but it was thoughts of Lord Selwyn Tarth that ultimately led Jaime to reluctantly conclude that they should spend their night apart.

Guilt towards Selywn had become a heavy burden to him; Jaime had felt terribly uncomfortable standing next to Brienne's father in the throne room following the intimate morning he had shared with her, just hours before. It made him nervous to admit it to himself, but part of what made Jaime so aroused with Brienne that morning knew that her father was staying close by the White Sword Tower; the thrill of being discovered had been too tempting for him to simply ignore. Perhaps it was fair to say that some old habits die hard; it had been that very same thrill that had been so arousing to him whenever he had been with sister--it was the real threat of finally being caught, together, that made their love feel so dangerous, so...intoxicating.  

Making their way towards the front door of the Red Keep, Jaime thanked the stablemaster as he helped the king dismount from his horse so it could be fed and brushed elsewhere; Tommen looked at the door to the Keep with a sense of reluctant duty.  Looking down towards his little cub, bundled tight in his bearskin robe, Jaime smiled at him before he spoke again.

“Your Grace.  I have some news I need to share with you.”  Tommen looked back at his regent with a slight look of curiosity piquing his interest.  “Uh...hmmm.  Do you remember when Ser Addam spoke to you about the ‘sweetheart’ I lost in the Riverlands?”  Searching Jaime’s face, Tommen soon nodded.  “Well, as it turns out, I never really lost her.  She was only sleeping...for a long time.”

“She was in a coma, wasn’t she?”

Jaime could feel a faint, thready heartbeat fill his chest.  “Yes, your Grace.  She was the one who...she was the woman who had been selected to champion for the Faith.”

A cold dread gripped Jaime’s throat.  He had a hard time imagining how this conversation was going to end up.  Drowning in silence, the regent slowly continued as he kneeled down on one knee to speak with his so.  “I love her very much.”  Tommen paused as he looked at his father.  “Very, _very_ much.  I’ve known her for a long time; in fact, she was the same woman who escorted me back to King’s Landing after I had been captured by the Starks.”  Tommen’s face was still round with a child’s innocence, but the thin line stitched tight across his mouth was grim with a mature comprehension.  Taking a seat on the marble steps beneath him, Jaime watched as his son slowly took a seat next to him as well.  There was a relief in this; it showed to Jaime that Tommen was willing to understand and listen.

“I know she had defeated your mother’s champion...but you must understand that she did not want your mother to die; she only wanted to survive that battle because--”

“Because she loves you too?”  Jaime looked down at his son with a wan smile and spoke in a soft voice.

“Yes.  Yes, your Grace.  She loves me...so much that she even agreed to marry me.”  Tommen looked down at his polished boots with a faint nod as he understood what this had meant.  Glancing back up at Jaime with the glare of a rising sun in his eyes, Tommen started to quirk his lips off to the side before he finally continued.

“And you want my blessing?”  Thunderstruck by his correct assumption, Jaime softly replied ‘yes’ as Tommen watched his father’s curious face.  Still silent, Jaime continued.

“I want you to know that Brienne never wanted your mother to die.  That was never her intent; she had no choice but to fight for the Faith...and in that she had--”

Tommen interrupted his regent as he finally expelled his own secrets with a harsh whisper that seemed to trip over his lips like an overflowing goblet tumbling with wine.  “I know that mother tried to have you poisoned, uncle.”  Rattled by this announcement, Jaime remained quiet as the little king continued.

“After mother died, you left my room to speak with the septons and the grand maester...I overheard everything through the door.”  The color bled from Jaime’s face.  “I overheard what had been said; I know that mother tried to kill you.  I spoke to Maester Prewitt before the inquest had been concluded.  She had wanted only you to die.”  

Shocked by this, Jaime felt a ragged breath fall out of his lungs as he leaned further back into the marble steps behind him.  Tommen started to fiddle with a gold buckle on his gleaming boots; he continued as Jaime tried to keep pace to his son’s understanding.  

“I--I’m glad, Lady Brienne won the battle.  I was terrified of Ser Robert; people in court said he was a monster, a freak.  I’m glad Lady Brienne defeated him.  I’m glad that...that you’re not dead, uncle.”  Thick tears threatened to spill out of the king’s eyes; with a clear voice he continued.  “I miss mother.  I miss her...but I’m glad you’re still here.  I’m glad...I’m g-glad, that you’re…”  Little Tommen’s face was frozen with a stoic heartache; he knew how much his mother hated to see him cry.  Jaime wanted to pull his king close into his arms but Tommen’s little fingers were linked tight behind his knees.  Wrapping himself tighter into his sea lion cloak against the winter winds, Jaime glanced at his son, wishing he could hold him close in spite of being in the presence of servants and scrupulous members of court. Together on the marble steps of the Red Keep, the little king sat quietly with his regent, silently glad that he was finally learning how to hold back his rebellious tears; it was just like what his mother had always wanted. He fervently hoped that she was proud of him, wherever she was.

 

\-----------------------------

Early that evening, the little king hosted a private dinner in his chambers for his uncle, Lady Brienne, Lord Selwyn of Tarth and Ser Addam Marbrand. The departure of his mother's body still lay heavily upon Tommen's heart, but he was determined to have something pleasant, if not something joyful to look forward to that night.

Adjusting his dark green doublet, King Tommen saw to his duties and greeted each guest with cordial civility. Somehow he became nervous by the prospect of finally meeting Lady Brienne for the first time; though she fought and won against his mother's champion, she did hold the distinct honor of defeat the indomitable Ser Robert, a great, hulking monstrosity that always left the little king feeling nervous with a sick twist in his fluttering stomach.

He watched as Lady Brienne as she was escorted into the private dining hall with Lord Selwyn leading her in. His new friend, the Evenstar, seemed to have a new light in his eyes since the return of his daughter; Tommen assumed if the Lady Brienne was anything like her lord father, then he knew he would grow to like her as well.

Curious, Tommen looked back at his uncle to watch his face when Lady Brienne finally entered the room. He might have not understood all of the intricacies of a courtly romance between adults, with all of their ridiculous courtship protocols and all of the staggering formalities, but he did understand how unhappy his uncle was once he returned from the Riverlands, how broken and how exhausted he had always seemed. Tonight he saw a new man born in Uncle Jaime's eyes; he saw joviality and youth, optimism and genuine smiles.

Seated at the head of the table, swinging his legs nervously from beneath the heavy tablecloth, the little king pondered the smiling faces and loving glances his uncle shared with the Maid of Tarth. He began to wonder if he would've ever felt that way towards Queen Margery, had she the courage to remain with him through everything.

Dinner was amusing if not a bit strange; Lady Brienne could hardly eat anything while Uncle Jaime enjoyed teasing her about it; Ser Addam Marbrand said something about how she needed to eat if she wanted to keep her strength up for all that awaited her, later that evening. Lord Selwyn laughed behind a napkin while Jaime ribbed Addam for his lack 'stamina' in skirmishes on the battlefield and with the ladies.  Puzzled by this exchange, Tommen shrugged as he took a hearty bite into his cheddar and spinach pie; he wished Margery was there to help explain to him what it was they were truly discussing.

Seeing how nervous Lady Brienne was, Tommen took it upon himself to speak to her with an assuring, casual tone, hoping to distract her from whatever it was that made her so blushing and nervous. He asked her about her sword training, the battles she fought, her squire Podrick and even shared with her his concern for Sansa Stark as well.  From the other side of the table, Tommen noticed his uncle gazing at Lady Brienne with a sweet fondness in his eyes. Catching the look the two had shared, the king felt suddenly nervous. Tommen meekly tugged on Brienne's creamy white tunic sleeve before he gestured her down with a crooked finger; he needed to speak to his uncle's betrothed in secret. Surprised, Brienne fulfilled his request as she lowered her long neck towards him; Jaime looked upon them with a nervous, almost discreet eye.

"Can you promise me something, Lady Brienne?"  Dabbing at her wide lips with a napkin, Brienne mumbled out a faint 'yes' as she eagerly waited for the king to continue. Swallowing back a sudden lump in his throat, Tommen continued. "Please don't leave my Uncle Jaime again."  Brienne's face turned white as she listened to his soft words. Glancing at Uncle Jaime's face, Tommen continued.  "He was half a man when he lost you...I couldn't bare it if he were to lose you again."  

Rattled by this seemingly small request, Brienne's eyes locked upon her king’s just as Uncle Jaime pretended not to notice that something had started to haunt his betrothed.  "I promise your Grace; with all my heart.  I will not leave him again."  

Sighing with this admission, Tommen smiled up at her. He was glad; he didn't want his uncle to know the pain and the sense of rejection he had felt following the sudden abandonment of his own wife. No loving spouse should ever have to know the ache of such a heartless cruelty, Tommen wearily thought to himself.

As the courses continued, a slight roll of laughter filled the private dining chambers as Ser Addam recalled the days he shared as a squire with a young Jaime Lannister.  Tommen heard stories he had never heard before; about how his Uncle Jaime had been so eager to impress his lord, he’d been tricked by Lord Crakehall's son into herding a flock of sheep into a pen and was commanded to bark like a dog to get stubborn sheep to start running. Jaime countered back with a story about the time he found Ser Addam practicing his kisses upon a smooth patch of a gnarled tree trunk, even going so far as reciting romantic poetry to it, pretending it to be some busty scullion wench that he had hopelessly fallen for.

Laughter rang out through the dining chambers; on a few occasions, Tommen even found himself laughing as well.  There had been far too much grief to bear, far too much heartache and suffering; in spite of the coming winter and threats of the return of a Long Night, the young king allowed himself to embrace the joy, however fleeting it was, for as long as he could manage it.

With glasses of cherished wine sipped and a few pointed glances between his Uncle Jaime and Lady Brienne, Tommen knew what was about to happen next. As the party made its slow and gradual departure from their lovely meal, Tommen watched as Lady Brienne politely pushed her chair back in as she spoke with her father. With what little wine she did manage to drink she still seemed sober and a little nervous. Distracted by her conversation, she had leaned her weight too far into the back of her chair and accidently slammed her pointer finger between the edges of the table and her chair. With a hard gasp of sudden, blinding pain, Lady Brienne wrapped her fingers tight around her injured one before she instinctively placed the tip of her finger into her sucking mouth. Trying to alleviate the terrible pain, Jaime looked back up at his wife-to-be and gave her a strange, almost knowing smirk.

"Is it a swollen...throbbing pain, Wench?"  Brienne's bright blue eyes flashed up at Jaime as she found a great big smile on his face. "Poor Brienne. My sweetling..."  Blushing bright red, the Maid of Tarth extracted her pink and violet fingertip from her mouth and continued to wrap it around the fingers from her other hand. With a strange pause she stopped to throw himself a sly, almost suggestive smile.  Nodding with a slight huff of embarrassment, she continued to hold onto her injured finger, holding it tight with an almost rhythmic squeeze. Jaime seemed almost carnivorous as he studied her carefully from across the dining table.

King Tommen rolled his eyes with defeat and confusion; adults in love were all so strange.

 

\-----------------------------

 

The wedding had been a small affair; the ceremony had been performed in a private sept within the Red Keep, only a short distance away from the young king's private chambers following their modest dinner.

With an almost foolish smile, Jaime watched Brienne as her father proudly escorted her towards the wedding altar seated between the Mother and the Father; he had almost wished they could have been wed in front of the altar of the Warrior, but since it was a place shared in close proximity to the Stranger, Jaime felt it would be best for him not to say anything contrary towards tradition.   He watched his better half make her way towards him with an ashen face and a smile that trembled with nerves; he never felt happier.

Her hair was worn loose and fell to down towards her shoulders in breezy, straw blonde curls.  She looked tense and slight under the eyes of the septon, but to Jaime, she was already perfect. Though she didn’t look confident, the maiden had felt comfortable, even desired on that night, but she would never go so far as to consider herself beautiful. Her face was wide and homely; with battle struck scars that crossed her face, and over-generous lips that seemed to exaggerate how big her blue eyes really were, she was obviously far removed from the likes of Cersei Lannister. She could have wasted precious time fretting over her looks; obsessed over how tall she was, how big she felt, how ungainly she had always seemed, but...she didn't.  It had taken a horrific death for the maiden to know the truth in Jaime's heart; that no matter how beautiful, lovely or graceful his sister may have been, Brienne knew that it was no longer her that Jaime had wanted. He only wanted Brienne, for the remainder of his life; and with that, there was nothing more that could have made Brienne feel finer than she did on that night.

Brienne had entertained the idea of wearing the lovely blue gown Jaime had commissioned for her while she was held prisoner following his return to King's Landing. In the end, the bride chose to feel comfortable rather than traditional; she knew no matter how many fine gowns or glittering trinkets that surrounding her face, she knew she would never change her appearances. Instead she wore lean, charcoal grey breeches with freshly made boots crafted in handsome, chestnut brown leather with intricate, silver buckles adorning them. Her tunic was freshly laundered cream colored wool that had been fragrantly washed in lavender water; a buttery yellow leather jerkin had been worn over it with a small sprig of lavender tucked primly in to one of the eyelets of her laces. Jaime had been pleasantly surprised to see that the Maid did not tie the laces to her tunic as high up as she had for dinner; to his delight he found a lovely patch of skin exposed, stretching down from the long column of her graceful neck towards the flushed valley where the tops of her breast would had shown for most women.  

As traditional as their union may have first seemed, most were surprised to find that neither bride nor groom bothered with the customary exchange of the wedding cloaks; the absence of this somber rite of passage was noted with interest by the septon, the King and the select few who attended the wedding, in addition to the members of the Kingsguard who were present.  For Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Selwyn of Tarth however, both understood there was no need to have a formal exchange of cloaks; both Jaime and Brienne had exchange of their own already:  For Jaime it had been the lush, black, sea lion cloak given to him by the Evenstar that was supposed to given to his son one day; for Brienne, it was the pristine, snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard Jaime had given to her for burial the day she was taken away from him.    

Holding her hand in front of the septon had felt like a bizarre miracle come to life.  Brushing his thumb over her knuckles, he had felt a joyful laughter begin to rise in his chest before he glanced over at Brienne’s face to find her expression to be austere and tense.

_She’s so nervous._

Without thinking, Jaime squeezed Brienne’s hand tight into his own and gave her a sweet, open mouth kiss on the lips.  Pulling away from her he was delighted to find her eyes light up with a flash of surprise and a faint blush blooming on her freckled cheeks.  Taking his golden hand close to her face, he stroked her chin with it as he murmured a faint “I love you” for only her to hear.  Like a sudden, thundering crack upon a frozen lake, Brienne smiled brightly at him while the vapors of her nerves began to gradually melt away.   

Neither wanted nor needed an elaborate affair; neither one saw the need for pageantry or pompous displays of status or wealth. It was simply the joining of two lives that were never entirely whole without the other one present. Vows were spoken, revered texts had been shared, blessings were said and prayers were faithfully muttered. It was only a formality for the sake of family and a precedent to maintain an unblemished honor. Had their lives been rejoined again in the frozen wilds of the north, both were certain they would have joined their bodies as husband and wife would do without any consideration to either faith or laws. But with this union, under the staggering shadows of the Red Keep, with family, faith and laws all present in equal measure to abide by; both of these two formed a perfect union, in every way, to uphold their honor in one another.

With the end of the quiet ceremony, the little king, bundled in his regal bear skin robe, held the honor to be the first to congratulate the newly married couple. Brienne looked down at Tommen with a strange smile on her lips as she thanked the king for his kind words.

_A bloodthirsty bear made me first realize how much I had fallen in love with Jaime Lannister...and now a sweet little bear cub congratulates us on our union._

Making a faint gesture with his hand, Ser Addam Marbrand handed his Grace a thin sword that had been hidden in the sept throughout the ceremony. Jaime held his breath when his son approached him with the blade.

"Joffy called it _Widow's Wail_.  I never liked the name; I never like fighting as well. I'd like for you to have and name it as your own, uncle; as my wedding present to you.  It was once one part of Oathkeeper; it's only right that it should be _with_ Oathkeeper."

Touched by this, Jaime held the Valyrian blade close in his hand as he glanced back at his wife with a strained, emotional smile.  Without even a pause Jaime glanced at his new sword before making his decision. "I'll call it _The Fair Maid_ , if it pleases your Grace."  Tommen smiled, thinking it a fine name; Brienne glanced at Jaime with a faint, nearly hesitant smile. King Tommen continued, this time addressing his newly received aunt.

"Lady Brienne...my aunt. Your father has had the pride of sharing the stories of the good people of Tarth. He has impressed me with tales of their courage and bravery as they fought off the invasion of the Gold Company. I understand your home has been devastated by the ravishing of your fishing villages."  Brienne felt stunned as she watched her king continue; with a faint glance towards her father she could tell he was as befuddled as her to hear what would be said next. "As my wedding gift to you, I would like to provide funds to restore Tarth to its former glory, as restitutions for your islands' renewed loyalty to the crown."  

A choke of emotion erupted from the Lord of Evenfall; Brienne knew her home had been touched by war, but something stubborn like an aurochs refused to believe to what extent it had been touched by. To see her father express such gratitude, such emotion was profoundly moving and slightly terrifying for her just the same. She knew in that moment to a small extent the bloody price Tarth, her beloved Tarth, had paid in the cost of this terrible war. Towns she knew were most likely sacked, families and people she known was scared by devastation, rape and murder.  Moved by such generosity, Brienne held her father close to her as the Lord of Tarth whispered his gratitude through tears to the king; the king was pleased to have done something so good; Jaime was never prouder of his son.

As the small party mingled through drying tears and praise for Jaime's Valyrian blade, eventually Addam Marbrand was kind enough to remind everyone present that this was still a night that belonged to a newly wed husband and wife.

"As lovely as it is to weep and fret about like a guilt riddled whore in a sept..."  Awkward laughter filled the private sept as the septon threw Ser Addam a withering glare.  "I think it's high time for the bride to present her wedding gift to her lord husband..."  Addam wagged his eyebrows with a humorous, salacious air.  "…and for the lord husband to gift his bride in turn!"  

A small wave of clapping filled the sept just as Brienne bowed her bright pink face close to Jaime's chest just as he made a face of mock offense to uphold his bride's perfect honor. No words of protest were spoken by them however; the two were quickly dismissed from the king's private chambers with words of love and congratulations by all. Kissing her father goodnight, Brienne held him while Jaime held his son close to his chest wishing desperately he could be more than an uncle to his boy.

Walking hand in hand with a lazy stroll in the frost bitten night sky, Jaime held his wife close to him as she in turn held him as they strolled their way towards their bed at the White Sword Tower as husband and wife. Off in the distance of the crisp night, a wolf's howl could be heard in the distance.  The regent took his time making his way back towards their room; it had been decided by both him and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard that this would be the last night Jaime Lannister would reside in the tower.

As they walked with flushed faces and sputtered with one another in giddy, almost childlike laughter beneath the glittering night sky, Jaime glanced up at the stars above and wondered how he had ever been so fortunate to have such beautiful stars shine down upon someone like him. His bride playfully tugged on his outstretched arm, pulling him in towards the front steps of the tower; quickly, the groom reminded himself that the stars in the sky would never had been so beautiful to him had Brienne been gone from his life forever.

Trailing into the warm enclosure of the tower with the thick thud of the heavy oak door, the two stuttered in laughter and that held a strange peel of innocent joy between the two of them as their icy boots scuffed across the stone floor.  Brienne was surprised to see Jaime's laughter die quickly as he tugged her arm into the Round Room before they made their way upstairs.  

"Wife."  The air fell out of Brienne's chest; she loved to hear him call her that. "Come.  There is something I need to show you."

Following his strange smile, Brienne followed him into the whitewashed room with an arched brow. "If you mean to take my maidenhead on the Kingsguard table..."  Jaime chuffed out a true laugh as he pulled her in closer to the room; a few candles were already lit in there.

"As much as I would like for us to revisit that notion at another time, I mean to first take you upon a feathered bed next to a roaring fire before we both suffer the indignity of my aching limbs staggering over your young body."  Brienne tried to protest Jaime's perceived impediments before he continued.  "No, Wench; I truly do have a bridal gift for you, and it will not be found unwrapped beneath my smallclothes."  Intrigued, Brienne let him finish. "I need you to see something."

To her amazement, Jaime led her to the White Book, the Book of Brothers.  "I wracked my brain to figure out a proper bridal gift for you...nothing seemed good enough. The finest gems would seem...pedantic; you're not fond of dresses, thank the gods...how else are you to drive me mad with want when I see you tease me with your impossible legs in breeches?  Oh, don't blush!  I've seen far more than those perfect legs since yesterday morning."  Brienne couldn't help but blush, no matter what Jaime said to her. Pausing in front of the White Book, Jaime handed Brienne a burning candle and gestured with his hand to take a closer look.

Lowering the flame carefully, Brienne tried to read whatever she was meant to see under the inky glare of the shadowy reaches of the Round Room. There within the White Book was a near blank page; in the bottom right of the page was a white shield, at the top left, drawn out in thin black lines was shield with a quarter field containing two crescent moons and two sunbursts. At the top of the page was titled with a single name: Lady Brienne, the Maid of Tarth.

"You gave me an honorary page..."  She couldn't finish. It was too much. Seeing her tears gather and fall, Jaime continued with soft and loving voice.  

"The page will be filled with colored inks and gold leaf once the book is taken into the Sept of Baelor to have it embellished later this year. I wanted Lord Commander Swann to fill in some of your noble deeds before this evening...but he was busy with other matters, the stodgy old frig.  But as you'll see, your page will be filled soon enough...and if I may be so bold, I dare assume that you'll require more than one page if I know anything about you, Wench."

Looking up at him in disbelief, Brienne smiled as she brushed back a thick tear. " _Wife_. I will only answer to the name _'Wife'_ tonight... _Husband_."

Feeling the rich word roll over in his ears, Jaime smiled wide as he realized how much he loved to hear being called that name by his beloved: _Husband_.  

Watching her brush her large hand over her honorary page had felt good to Jaime; it felt like justice. One thousand heroes came before her; ten thousand knights would follow in her wake; but not one man will ever hold a candle to her bravery, her innocence or her strength. Perhaps soon they would get to see their children read this book once their mother's page had been written in it.  With a faint grimace, Jaime also had to also consider that their children will want to read his page as well.

Speaking with a wry murmur, Brienne finally spoke as her fingers ran over her name at the top of her page. "You once said that we knew each other too well." With an intrigued smile, Jaime watched as Brienne faintly shook her head and smiled with a bemused eeriness. "I have a gift for you too."  

Handing him the candle back, Brienne lovingly touched her blank page once more before she delicately flipped back towards Jaime's page. To his amazement, he found a new paragraph had been written beneath his last entry. Watching his stunned silence as he read over his page, Brienne finally continued.

"The Lord Commander was not able to fill in my page today because I had asked him to fill in _your_ page. The night you had wanted to make your final entry in the White Book...I had read your page before I came up to see you. I read what you had written about yourself...and something bothered me about it.  And then I realized what it was; for all that you had written you never filled in any of your own noble deeds. Your page is worthy of those inclusions, Jaime. I’d spoken to the Lord Commanded; I told him what had happened since we were captured in the Riverlands. He agreed that your deeds should have been included as well."

" _Protected the Maid of Tarth from dishonor with an honorable lie. Rescued her from certain death by jumping into a bear pit with only one hand and no weapons to defend himself. Led a successful campaign in the Riverlands to end the War of the Five Kings; captured by the Brotherhood without Banners with a lie told by Lady Brienne.  Returned to King's Landing to protect his nephew, King Tommen's throne. Retired from the Kingsguard with full honors to become the King's regent, leaving his Brotherhood to faithfully serve the realm."_

Arrested with profound silence, Jaime re-read his entry once more.

_I will be proud to show this to my children._

Moments passed; Brienne finally wove her fingers into his own and gave his hand a tight squeeze before she started to pull on his arm with a coy whisper. "Let us go to bed."

Nearly dropping his candle with a mix of surprise and a sudden flood of arousal, Jaime looked up at Brienne with wide eyes as he lowered his candle back onto the Kingsguard table. Her mouth was full, her hair shined like platinum, her bright eyes was hooded and her chest heaved with a flush running up her long throat. Suddenly nervous, Jaime looked back up to his wife with a dry mouth.

He was a man many years older than her; he had only one hand, he finds more silver hairs in his beard almost daily and only the barest threads of honor somehow clung to his blemished name. A fresh, honorable young woman who was a true knight looked up at him now as if he was once the shadow of the Warrior that had finally come to life. He felt an awkward need to confirm once more that he was, indeed, what she truly wanted.

"R-really?"  Jaime's palm started to sweat as Brienne nodded her head with a cat like smile.

"Are you sure?"  

Chewing on her lower lip with a faint sigh of gentle annoyance, Brienne smiled at him and alleviated his fears. "Again: Yes.... _Husband_."

Feeling his cock twitch at the sound of that name curling over her tongue, Jaime let his wife lead him out of the Round Room and up towards the winding staircase that led them to their bedroom.

This was indeed what she wanted, and what was more, she was ready. With a soft nod and a faint blush raising up his throat he silently accepted her with a shy smile: He too was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup yup yup! Our dorks are finally going to get it on! 
> 
> Oh, and uhh...we're gonna have some other stuff happen in the next chapter too.


	17. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A union is consummated; justice is served.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits were made to this chapter on April 1st, 2016.
> 
> No changes were made to the overall story, just portions of this chapter because I was unhappy with it.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support in this work.

The title from the chapter comes from a poem by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](http://allpoetry.com/poem/8496977-The-Queen-by-Pablo-Neruda) if you're interested.

 

 

 

The slow climb up the tower stairs was needed for Jaime before they could enter their room together. The sandy drag and scrape of their boots up the marble steps was a calm, lulling sound as the groom tried to understand why it was he suddenly felt so nervous.

He watched Brienne's fine legs as they climbed up each of the steps, walking with an almost regal air as they held hands. On occasion, Jaime would briefly see his wife slightly turn her head towards him; her blonde hair would shift on her shoulders as the faintest silhouette of a grin quirked to one side of her marred cheek. She'd squeeze his hand as he’d squeezed hers in turn; his anxieties had started to lessen once he followed the slight roll of her narrow hips; it was a suggestive, almost quiet seduction for him as each one of her cool, elegant steps led Jaime one step closer to silencing his fears.

Beginning to feel bold, he ran his golden hand--wishing it had been made of flesh--over the back of Brienne's strong thigh, just above the hollow dip of her bent knee.  He felt her steps falter only for a moment before they continued their climb again. Charmed to see her reaction, Jaime allowed his false hand to begin a long trail from the top of her thigh and made a slow, devastating trail over her lush, firm rear. Feeling her hand grow limp and then suddenly damp, he held on tighter to her as he continued his thoughtful, golden trail up her backside, suddenly wishing they were in their room already. Once his gilded fingers began their burning trail up the back of her neck they had finally reached the landing of the Lord Commander's room.

Filled with smoldering want, Jaime firmly pressed his entire body against her back while she tried to fumble open the latch to the door with lusting, numbing fingers. A warm flood of desire rained down upon her shoulders; a deep thrumming started in her chest and filled her ears once her panted breath started to grow shallow and tight.  Leaning his entire weight into her body, Brienne felt the cool surface of the door press firm into her chest, legs and face as his nose started to burrow deep into her hair at the back of her neck.

“Jaime…”  He trailed slow, wet kisses upon the nape of her flushed neck; his golden hand tried to hold onto her waist as Brienne felt her body respond to the rising firmness nudging at her rear. Feeling her strength begin to dissolve, Brienne allowed for the door to their bedroom support her entire weight as her husband started to make a slow, grinding motion with his pelvis buried into her backside.

“Jaime…”  Brienne’s voice was almost likened to a maidenly gasp; she didn’t want to move.  The only thing she wanted then was for Jaime to never stop touching her like that.  A faint growl emanated from the back of his throat; she felt gooseflesh prickled her skin as his hand started to grab a hold of her hipbone, briefly thrusting into her backside while the weight of her body was gently forced against the door.  A low moan tumbled out of Brienne’s mouth; Jaime’s breath started to pant as well; his wife struggled to speak as her forehead dragged down the length of the door, letting her chin fall down to her chest.

“Jaime... _please_.”  He couldn’t respond, his kisses upon her neck were starting to reach her ear.  Determined not to lose her maiden title on the landing outside their room, Brienne forcefully pushed her vibrating skin away from the door as a gentle laugh fell from her husband’s mouth.

Granted enough space to finally pry open the latch to the entryway, Jaime wrapped with arms tight around her waist as her head fell heavy to one shoulder.  Taking this as his cue, he planted thick, sloppy kisses to the side of her neck.  Happily, Jaime wrapped his lips around the base of her neck and greedily sucked upon the thin flesh he could find and pulled it into his greedy mouth.  A throbbing pulse of pressure, tongue and saliva clamped onto Brienne’s neck; with a small shiver, she smiled once she finally pried the door to their bedroom door wide open.

Between lustful swipes of his tongue and gentle, teasing nips with his shuddering teeth, Jaime smirked against her neck once her laughter rang in his ears.  

“What?  Ticklish, Wench?”

Reaching one hand behind her back, Brienne locked her fingers into her husband’s hair and smiled as she felt Jaime’s laughter warm her ears.  

“I said...that I would only answer to the name _‘Wife’_ tonight... _Husband_.”

Gradually, he closed the door behind them.  Enveloped into the warmth of their snug and shuttered room, Brienne was delighted to see a great, roaring fire lit within the white stone fireplace in front of their wedding bed.  Bundles of lavender flowers grown from the Red Keep’s glass gardens were found in every corner of the room; the fragrant scent eased Brienne’s marital anxieties even though she was eager to become a maid no longer.  

“Say that again.”  His voice was faint with his request; Brienne was surprised to hear how small he had sounded then.  “Please.”

Turning to him, wrapping her long arms around his blushing neck, Brienne trailed ghostly fingers into the back of his hair before she complied to his sweet request.  

“ _Husband_.”  Jaime sighed with a tiny smile.  “My husband…”  Feeling bold, moved by love, she continued once more in a small, whispering voice. “ _My_ _Oathkeeper_.”               

Completely touched by the soft, loving name she chose for him, Jaime gazed at Brienne with a thick emotion that was bound tight in his throat. Blinking back sudden tears, he lowered his eyelids before he felt his mouth fall upon his bride with an all-encompassing kiss.

She felt dizzy, lost within the strong sweep of his thorough, probing tongue.  Tilting her head back, Jaime littered her throat with brief kisses before they trailed into the deep V of her exposing tunic.  Before she could feel anymore lost in his kisses, Jaime dragged his head back up before Brienne slowly opened her bright eyes.  With an almost faint bracing in her long legs, Brienne watched Jaime begin to slowly pull Brienne’s slate blue cloak from off her shoulders.  It had felt like a wonder to watch him carefully undress her.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you; I’ve been imagining doing this to you for some time now.”  Brienne felt a lax grin cross her face as Jaime dropped her heavy, frosty cloak onto the floor.  Feeling her fingers start to shudder, Brienne started to unclasp the black leather straps to Jaime’s sea lion cloak from his shoulders.  Feeling the feathery soft gold and silver fur run through her fingers, she watched Jaime reverently removed the cloak from her fingers before he picked up hers; making quiet steps across the room he hung them both on the brass hooks mounted on the wall.  Walking up behind him as he tried to awkwardly unclasp his new Valyrian blade from his side, Brienne gently offered up her hands with a respectful air of support.  Looking from over his shoulder, Jaime smiled at his wife once she handed him his sword to be hung up next to his cloak.  Letting out a gentle sigh, Jaime reached for Brienne’s blade, Oathkeeper, and hung it up next to his with her snowy white Kingsguard cloak beneath it.  They looked perfect hung next to each other.

“ _The Fair Maiden_ , Jaime?  Your jests are always so clever…”

Chuffing out a surprised laugh, Jaime interrupted his wife before she could speak any further.

“Well, I certainly couldn’t call it the _Just Maid_ , now could I, _Wife_.”  Brienne gasped once she heard him say the name of the legendary sword of Tarth.  “Come now; you don’t think I’ve never heard of tales of the ‘Perfect Knight’, have you?  Ser Galladon of Morne?”  He continued as a strange blush started to climb up his cheeks.  Fidgeting with Oathkeeper’s scabbard he continued in a soft voice as he lowered his eyes.  “I used to read to Tyrion as a boy; the _Tales of the Great Heroes_ was a book I would read to him nightly.”  He paused.  “The tale of Ser Galladon was always one of his favorites...it was one of the stories he’d make me read to him after he’d awaken from some nightmare.”

Brienne knew that Jaime was not teasing Brienne’s appearances when he named his blade in honor of her.  She knew ‘fair’ was a rather shrewd word for Jaime to choose; though she was fair of hair color, and though she was not so fair of face, he chose that word to reflect the sense of justice and honor his wife always inspired in him; to him, she was unequal to others and was even with her judgement and always honest.  Feeling a threat of tears pull at her lips, Brienne cleared her throat before she could continue.

“I’m just so pleased, _Husband_ , that you even knew of Ser Galladon at all.”  Following his smile, Brienne leaned in to kiss Jaime with a faint grin and a fair shimmer in her bluebell eyes.  

With unblinking eyes, Jaime stared at her with a half smile on his face before he dropped his lips onto hers with a kiss.  "I want to know everything there is to know about you, love."

Sinking deep into their kiss, Jaime slowly began to unlace her buttery yellow jerkin with one hand shortly after she fumbled with the laces of his prosthetic hand. Both of them heard the soft clang of gilded steel tumble down to the floor with a shared smile. He took his time in peeling off her undershirt; he loved watching the golden firelight dance over her bare chest; every dip and hollow in her throat danced bright with firelight, dressing her in gold and reds.  Silently, Jaime considered how appropriate it was to see his wife finally dressed in Lannister colors only once she stood bare before him.  Watching her toe off her new boots, he slowly undid her breeches as he kicked off his boots in turn. 

All of his air started to freeze in Jaime's chest; he realized just then how nervous he truly felt at that moment. While her innocent blue eyes looked up at his, Jaime began to dwell on how chaste his wife truly was; she was so trusting and pure. To him, she was honor incarnate and he feared that the dark smudge of his disgrace would suddenly pollute someone so lovely, so beautiful like her. Sensing his hesitation, Brienne placed both her hands on Jaime's chest and leaned in for a kiss.  Feeling his eyelids grow heavy, Jaime kissed her back and marveled at the sweet grace of his wife with a quiet shudder to his breath.  

Brienne knew Jaime suddenly grew nervous then, but she was surprised by how much it affected him now when they both wanted each other so much. Both honor and disgrace were fragile constructs that were designed and nurtured by man alone, much like the imposing nature of a great stone wall, like the reverence for a glorious blade or the long reach of a dark castle. Though honor and disgrace could hold power over men's hearts for a long time, both of these man made creations could withstand the natural elements for only so long.

Without logic or reason, love blooms to life with a tender defiance, adapting and even learning to thrive under the harshest circumstances by its own accord. If emerald-green moss can sprout to life on the face of a stone wall; if a wild and gnarled tree can learn to grow around the dull edges of a rusted sword; if a lush and shady forest can conquer the ruins of a broken castle, then Love—the arrogant seed of life—could defy the mortal constructs of honor _and_ disgrace with the passage of time.

Stone by stone, the cold walls of both honor and disgrace were carefully being dismantled by love from the other. Slowly, without ego or permission, a gentle stream of respect had eroded the bedrock of their walls and split them in two, letting unfold the precious seed of love without notice or admission.

On that night, a wounded man, long concealed behind the thick walls of dishonor, watched his defenses be stripped bare and lain to waste, brick by brick. Stricken clean of his disgrace, he was now a man reborn without name. With Brienne’s sweet touch, her loving words and her unwavering faith, he no longer saw himself as a kingslayer, an oathbreaker or a man without honor.

He was just a man, and she called him Jaime.

On that night, a woman mocked and dismissed by all finally grew tired and stepped down from the inhospitable climb of a cold and hollow honor. Washed clean from the polluted romance of song and ideals, she was now a woman reborn without name. With Jaime's gentle hand, his dearest kisses and his breathless love, she no longer felt like an ugly monster, a great beast or a hideous freak.

She was just a woman, and he called her Brienne.

It was because of Brienne's grace that allowed Jaime to forget all of the twisted doubts that polluted his thoughts; fears that’d been conceived from the moment he first began to examine his feelings for the maid: he was always left feeling dismayed at himself whenever he thought of her in that way; he believed that he had nothing to give her other than the tainted affections of a shamed, oathbreaking knight. Sometimes he could only think of himself as someone who was no more than a pitiful, crippled man who had no more to offer her other than his maimed body and the soiled honor of a Lannister's glory. What gifts were these to bestow upon someone who's so treasured to him, someone who is so dear?

All thoughts turned into the deafening rush of blood in his ears once he focused on his wife. How she trembled at the slow pace he took to remove the last pieces of her clothing--how hard her hands shook when it finally came time to undress him in turn.

For every quaking breath she let out, Jaime languidly kissed her face and her neck as his silent plea for her to continue.  As fearful as she was, she did not dare stop; love was too precious, too rare of a gift for her to ignore; she did not dare let someone so loving, a moment so wonderful slip past her fingers. A ragged exhale spilled from her lips once she gradually extracted herself from Jaime’s warm arms. Worried green eyes darted over her face, wondering if he’d done anything wrong. Before she could stop herself, Brienne looked down at his bare feet moments before she took a knee and carefully lowered herself to the stone floor.

Jaime could feel the maid’s fleeting, piercing blue glances start to burn across the expanse of his skin; their eyes locked onto each other, frozen in time before she unlaced his uncomfortable breeches. He felt his legs freeze with apprehension once Brienne started a slow, sensuous drag of clothing down his legs. Feeling so exposed, his mouth fell open while she cautiously guided his feet out of the tangled pool of clothing around his ankles; it was then did he realize that he was now starting to quietly panic.  

She made quick work of disrobing him; her deft hands felt so dear and gentle on his body. He felt his heart begin to race while his breathing turned jagged and shuddery. Brienne was surprised by how tense he was; standing before her was a man she’d been long been accustomed to as being someone so arrogant, so proud and assuming.  But tonight—alone with her in this room—the once smug Lannister heir was left taut and trembling like the beaten skin of a war battered drum. Watching her golden head bow low, feeling her shivery kisses start to skim and glide over his bare thighs, he felt his heart start to quicken and slam in his chest once her calloused fingers started to unlace the fine strings of his smallclothes soon after.

The outline of shadowy ribs started to rise and swell in Jaime once she pushed the linen undergarment down his hips and over his long legs. Locking her wide eyes onto his arousal, he let out a sharp gasp once he felt the puffs of her warm breath started to unknowingly tease the head of his cock.  

Groaning in anticipation, Jaime looked down to see Brienne’s head start to move over his hips while the silky ends of her hair began to sway and brush up against the hot skin of his thighs. As sweet kisses lingered  over his hipbones, he tried to mumbled out words of love but they all started to fade within the soft trails of his winded sighs.

Great blue eyes locked onto his face only to find that his expression was tense, painfully rutted; Jaime could feel the twist of a mounting suspense start to flourish deep inside of him, but once he opened his eyes and found Brienne’s wholesome gaze fixed on him—his cock so close to her parted mouth—with great reluctance, he nervously begged for her to stand back up to her feet.

Nearly wounded by his request, Brienne pulled away from his hips with a naive expression on her face. Her natural worries, however, were quickly hushed by the quickening of her mounting need; slowly rising back up to her feet, she trailed her hands across his ribs while glancing down at his body with bashful understanding. She almost wanted to deny the fact that it was her alone who could inspire such primal want in him.

She muttered his name against his breastbone with a trace of wonder and a shadow of doubt in her husky voice; she nuzzled her ruined cheek against his the soft curve of shoulder with closed eyes and a thumping heart. Tucking his face deep into her clean, fragrant hair, Jaime eventually tugged her damp palm closer to his side and led her to their waiting bed with shy glances over his shoulder.

Finally he stood before her at the side of their pristine bed; the maid sat before him wearing only a coy, nervous smile. Her glacier blue eyes looked so wide and innocent. She was amazed by what she saw: Jaime’s skin almost looked golden in the flickering candlelight. With the end of his right arm he stroked the downy skin beneath her jaw while his only hand began to smooth over her pale hair in a thoughtful, comforting rhythm.  With a deep exhale, he watched her pretty eyes as they turned heavy and started to flutter shut.    

Slow, calming eyes looked back up at him again with the charm of a glowing smile. Jaime no longer felt like he was the king regent or a proud heir to Casterly Rock under his wife’s loving gaze; he couldn't even think of himself as a knight, let alone someone who was worthy of trust or devotion. Instead, Brienne was met by a nervous, self-doubting man whose face was stoic and his body seemed to flinch and squirm in his own skin. Flushed with arousal yet incapable of making prolonged eye contact with her, the maid sensed that her husband was oddly torn between the shame of his natural desires and the profound need to be loved unconditionally.

Watching his conflicted eyes dart down between his bare feet and her pale thighs, Brienne calmly lifted her hand up to his right arm, tugging him closer to their bed.  With soft hands and hooded eyes, she guided his scarred wrist up to her wide lips, all the while trying to ignore the obvious quiver in her hand.

Her fingers fluttered and skimmed over his wrist like the quiet dance of raindrops in the advent of a storm; without pity, she graced his scar tissue with a sweet kiss that nearly brought tears to his startled eyes. Blue eyes met green in a quick flash of lust; with sudden nerves, Brienne's silvery lashes fluttered shut once more while her contented sigh filled the room. With the maidenly sound that fell from her chest, Jaime quickly forgot every fear he had that plagued his mind.

“ _Jaime_.”

A hushed, thick whisper pinched the back of her throat. She spoke his name once more with a coy, quivering smile. His knees felt weak, his eyes turned wide and innocent—boyish, sea-green and unblinking. As he loomed above her, Brienne felt a small victory start to well up inside once a ghostly smirk finally began to flit across her husband’s lips.

The dry kisses on his wrist started to make its way up the length of his long arm.  All of his doubts began to shudder away and slip into a warm darkness while a pleasant shiver rumbled down his spine. Between his tarnished honor and his shattered vows, somehow, a woman as good and pure as her managed to love someone who was so unseemly and broken as him.

Brienne's pool blue eyes narrow on his face with a blatant desire.  Awkwardly, she guided his flushed body into a stumbled crawl over her own while she laid herself down across the feathery bed. With a staggered exhale, Jaime watched Brienne’s warm smile glint with a shy joy once her words of comfort eased him into a doubtful crawl over her body. With a gradual stretch of all of his tense muscles, Jaime felt the brittle shales of fear begin to slip loose and fall off of his nervous body. He eventually framed her face between his forearms while littering her broken nose with dry, sleepy kisses. Using the heel of his thumb, he stroked back the brittle hair at her temple. A silent laugh fell from her tattered breath; he couldn’t help but smile back down at his beloved wife in turn.

Mounted above her, Brienne lovingly stroked his beard, combing back the golden hair from his darting eyes while she let out a warm, satisfied purr. In between serene kisses, Jaime glanced down between their heaving bodies; cautiously, he maneuvered a bent a knee between her legs while weaving his fingers into the back of her hair. After a few chaste kisses, he let out a deep, poignant sigh once he eased the full weight of his body onto hers, burrowing his aching cock next to the slick, wet folds between her thighs. Brienne started to feel most of her anxieties start to slip away from her consciousness with the easy grace of sand falling between her fingers. Between her maidenly gasps and his deep groans of pleasure, he met everyone of Brienne’s honeyed kisses before shy words of love began to dwindle away into faint, breathless moans.

In her was the earth; a dark, rich soil that was ripe with life and gave so much when Jaime knew he deserved so little.  For him—the jaded, weary traveler—he somehow stumbled upon the quiet, sunlit peace that he found centered within her; she was the calming home his aching soul always craved. In Brienne he found his lush, verdant oasis, hidden away deep in the barren wilderness of broken men and doomed women.

The blue of her eyes were the clear skies of a blossoming spring; her tears—not of pain, but of love—was the lovely poem of glittering ice melting under the rays of the welcomed sun. The pale gold of her daylight hair slowly turned dark with a burnished glow while salted droplets began to bead and trickle at her temples. Her skin, blushing and freckled, was littered with pale wounds and bone-white flaws that resembled the light of falling stars as they streaked across the midnight sky, appearing to those who were only worthy of seeing such a beautiful, astral wonder.

In him was the rain; a crushing storm that roared to life in the winds that rattled the remote cliffs of untouched mountains. His ceaseless mouth was the deluge that preceded a cataclysmic event. His soft kisses was a need that flashed and rolled in tireless waves, relentlessly offering himself up to Brienne without fear or pride. In his breath was the twisting winds that whipped up the foaming waves. With her, his body surged with the force of a dark tidal of love, always racing for that distant shoreline, longing to break its crest upon those remote lands and be welcomed home; his desire was the torrent of pure rapture that always threatened to swallow and drown his porous heart.

In him was the ancient seed of life, a primal, immortal wash that would cleanse their earthly wounds; his gasps and sighs were the wordless plea for a pure creation; the dawn of a new inception—to finally have it unfold and flourish from the dark trenches of his soured life.

At long last, Jaime touched the ground, sinking his trembling body into that chaste earth and called it home; Brienne in turn opened up her fragile heart, embracing the beautiful downpour of his worship, and she loved him back.

It was an awkward, stumbled beginning for them; it was a fresh, vulnerable intimacy that threatened to overwhelm Brienne. To her astonishment, when Jaime finally entered her body with a gasping moan, it wasn’t the fearful snap of pain and the dreaded pool of blood she always expected it to be; instead, it was only a dull, strange ache that felt unusual to her—but there was also an unexpected comfort in that foreign ache once he buried himself to the hilt with a sharp inhale. In spite of her numerous fears and countless anxieties, each one of them started to float away like wishes made on dandelions seeds, suddenly taken to flight with only a gentle breeze.

Once he had finally settled himself into her, allowing her time to feel accustomed to this fresh, primordial invasion, Brienne heaved her chest in relief while Jaime fell silent with smoldering concentration. So delicate beneath him, Brienne felt her legs start to spread further apart while she unknowingly rolled her hips closer to his; Jaime’s eyes slammed shut with a sudden choke in his breath, quietly pleading for her to have mercy on his primed body.

For Brienne, she could no longer recognize Jaime on that night. To her, he had became elevated, transformed, carnal and wild; he was a beautiful tempest spun inside of a lone raindrop. Unfurled within her was the seed of a new courage that started to unfold; conceived and nurtured with the swift grace of rolling of storm clouds while Jaime began to move himself gingerly inside of her.  Feeling her muscles start to relax, Brienne watched a slow grimace of pleasure start to mark Jaime’s honest, lovely face.

Fear could have easily ruled her heart and mind that night, but instead, Brienne made an important decision that day: she decided that she was exhausted by all of her insecurities; she had been wrung out and depleted by the memories of her past traumas and doubts. On this night, and for all of the nights to come, she decided that she was going to have nothing to fear because she would spend the rest of her life with the man she loved, someone whom she trusted.

His skin was slick, warm to the touch and yielding; and yet, Jaime was still wound up tight, almost shivering with quaking restraint. With his sweet, worried glances darting all over her face, he permitted himself to surrender to pleasure once Brienne assured him with a shy smile that he wasn't hurting her. Timid at first, he heaved and groaned into her scared neck with audible relief; while Brienne teased the back of his neck with her snagged nails, Jaime allowed himself to feel unbound as she repeated her trembling promise with a thin, keening whisper. He felt breathless, gasping—somehow immortal—once her mewling sighs started to puff across his slack face.

It wasn't possible for Brienne to remain still beneath him for long; though she was a shy maid she was still a fighter, not one who could remain passive for long. With a pleasant surprise, Jaime was delighted to find out that Brienne was a willful, passionate lover; she was so open with herself in the marriage bed, so generous and free. Between the twisted bed sheets that tangled at their feet, the haphazard waterfall of blankets that tumbled over to the side, to the knocked over pillows littering the stone floor, he was thrilled and inspired by her artless passion and youthful spirit.  

As her fingernails dug deep into the slick flesh of his shoulder blades, the unexpected sting of it made Jaime smile privately to himself: _Perhaps my lady was always destined to become a lioness._  Brienne let out a small cry as she dragged her blunt nails down the length of his back. Giving himself over completely to her, he was happy that his wife was not a fragile creature who was self conscious of herself like this, with him; instead Brienne started to burgeon with a new found strength; she became fiery, boundless and transcendent with the untethered freedom of a reciprocated love.  

Sliced open and trembling, Brienne’s long legs—strong and corded like wood—vined around the backs of his thighs, eventually hooking themselves together at the small of his back with a thrumming, pounding rhythm.  She touched his ribs with her palms like the ghostly flutter of a nightingale's wings; she grazed his lean stomach with the whispery softness of her own; her fingers—long and shaky—touched his flushed face with the lovely reverence of a pilgrim who found sanctuary at last.

Kisses that were once delicate and loving soon turned wild and crashing with the force of waves in a defiant storm; deep, thundering kisses eventually rolled into the dark, churning expanse of an unfathomable love. A love so vast, so open and wild that it could not be measured or conquered by any mortal means.  

With sharp gasps, their frantic lovemaking started to carry off into a smooth, gentle ache of both flesh and heart. Together they became unanchored and formless, drifting into the currents of a soothing rhythm; in a lapping pulse that dragged them deeper into each other, they were both left panting and grappling without forethought or fear. Rolling hips and tense muscles froze and quickly trembled once they had greeted their savage, rutting end beneath the crushing weight of selfless love.

With the merciless storm followed the wet crack and shudder of the archaic landslide. In each other's arms they were fed, melded, primitive and healed.  Just as the rain and the soil could not be divided from the slip clay of the raw earth, neither Brienne nor Jaime could be divided from each other as well. In that long, dark night a fresh, radical terrain had been formed, a new ocean was discovered and what had followed was the flickering dream of a tender hope: to one day have the sun shine down upon their union and let unfurl the green buds of an eternal summer. 

On this torrential night, on the feathered wings of a quiet wind, a dream of spring was finally known to them.

Washed up on the quiet surf of exhausted lust, husband and wife slowly collapsed onto the bare mattress of their wedding bed, staring at each other with wide smiles, panting breaths and racing pulses. Slow, rich kisses drifted back and forth between them in a lazy give and pull while a new ache started to unfold between them: it was the sweet ring and the hard burn of fragile hearts finally taking to the flame and being reforged as one.  

With a ceaseless yearning for one and a tireless wonder for the other, little sleep was had by both that night; when one's hands could effortlessly reach for the other, the need for rest paled in comparison to a pure and innocent want.

 

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Dawn rose too soon.  

Jaime watched Brienne sleep for hours.  No matter how many times they coupled that night, he still did not have enough of her.  

While sunlight tried to peak through the window glass, rippled by a sheet of ice, Jaime slowly dragged his finger's through her hair while he dreaded to speak.  As moments passed, a bird sang out a sweet welcome for a new day on the icy perch of the window ledge.  With blinking blue eyes and a sleepy sigh, Brienne woke up to see Jaime seated next to her warm body like a protective shadow. 

With reluctance, Jaime told Brienne he needed to see to one of his duties as regent that day.

"What for?"  With a slow grimace souring his features, he weighed his words carefully while gazing back down at her innocent eyes; Jaime eventually confessed to her his royal obligation.

"Qyburn was found guilty of practicing dark arts; he had been accused on charges brought against him by the Faith; he is to be executed within an hours’ time. Tommen has yet to learn how to stomach such things; I will have to attend in his place."  

A moment passed as winter winds rattled outside; Brienne remained still as Jaime tucked a fur blanket snug around her body. Blue eyes flashing awake, Brienne suddenly made a decision.

"I need to see."  Jaime felt a chill ring his bones; he could only assume why Brienne needed to witness the execution of the disgraced maester. Though their time together at Harrenhal was brief, he knew she had been examined by the grandfatherly madman by order of Vargo Hoat; the lisping mummer requested to see if Brienne had any diseases and to know if she was still a maiden before he made his plans to rape her.

Without any warning, Jaime felt a boiling wave of anger line his stomach; he did not want to imagine all of the unsavory things Qyburn had done to his wife during the time of her forced examination. Feeling a shuddering sigh leave his chest, Jaime ran his fingers through his hair before he quietly agreed to his wife's request. Keeping his head low, he tried to hold back onto his anger as he watched his wife climb up out of their bed, teasing him with the long, gentle lines of her strong, scar laced back.  He felt his heart grow lighter at the mere sight of it.

 Watching Brienne gather her clothing and slowly get dressed, Jaime eventually followed her example as well.  They would have all the time in the world together following Qyburn's execution.

 

\-------------------------------

 

The winter winds started to turn bitter as an icy sleet began to transform the world of the Red Keep into an ice glazed vision of near beauty. Every stone wall, every gate and road rippled with muted daylight as the thick layers of ice folded upon each other, layer by layer, much like a sword being hammered into form.  Tall trees swayed heavy with thick, deadly branches as they gathered heavy ice, appearing as if though they were carved out of crystal; tall evergreen trees bowed low and heavy, resembling grand ladies, dressed in dark emerald and snow; each treetop had bowed their regal heads low towards the ground as their heavy branches threatened to snap and shatter beneath them.

Leading a careful pathway into the tower of Traitor’s Walk, Brienne followed Jaime’s tracks in the presence of Lannister guards; some were kind enough to offer up both their congratulations on their marriage, some men still looked through Brienne as if she were an affront to decency.  She paid those men no mind; somehow their painful looks and sneers no longer seem to touch her like it used to.  

In a dark cell, waiting to be escorted to the private courtyard for his beheading, Jaime led his wife toward Qyburn’s holding chamber with no pleasure.  He hated the very idea of that slithering old man laying hands on his wife, never mind the thought of leaving her alone in his presence.  As the gaoler lingered by with a flaming torch, Jaime pulled Brienne aside once more to be certain this was what she truly needed.  “I can stay, if it pleases you.”  Wishing to no longer to deceive Jaime any further, Brienne lightly nodded her head before he smoothed his warm hand over the span of her shoulder.  Touched by this gesture, she lingered under his touch for a few moments longer before they walked together towards the former maester’s holding cell.

As the light of the torch finally reached the prisoner, Brienne let out a silent gasp once she saw what had been left of Qyburn.  Huddled into one corner of the rotted cell, the old man looked twice his age as he struggled to keep the blinding light of the torch out of his blood crusted eyes.  He was never a large man but he had lost plenty of weight in his time during his tortured filled confinement; thin folds of skin dripped off his neck and face, taking on a greyish pallor under the guttering firelight.  The palms of his hands were bright pink with large, fluid filled blisters on his hands; he had been burned there repeatedly.  Dressed in a rough spun grey sack, the old man shivered in the drafty room; a watery gruel had been left for him at the corner of his cell near a bucket overflowing with piss and night soil; Jaime found a rather large cockroach try to crawl its way out of the deep bowl of Qyburn’s watery supper.  Rat bites were found all across the former maester’s blistered feet.  In spite of these horrors, Brienne was most taken aback by his face.  Large, weeping sores covered the old man’s face; black and violet bruising swelled his skin like over cooked meat; half of his lower lip had hung off of his face as the result of severe beatings.  Brienne could no longer tell what the old man’s eyes looked like anymore; they were far too swollen shut to be seen.  

Though pity flashed in her heart, it did not reside for long; she was still too horrified by the ill memories of Ser Robert Strong.  Lowering herself onto her haunches, Brienne held onto the bars that lined his cell before she spoke.  In the distance, the faint dripping sound of water could be heard before the squeaking of rats echoed in the black halls of the cavernous cells.  

“Lady...Brienne. The maiden of Tarth; the Saph--Sapphire Isles.”  A wheezing chuckled tumbled out of Qyburn’s boney chest.  “Though, perhaps a maiden no longer it would seem.  Not since the last time I had...examined you.”

Jaime’s disgusted voice sliced the dark air with a trail of acid running in his tone.  “ _That’s enough.”_ Brienne kept her eyes steady on the maester; she studied the withered old man carefully before she finally spoke.  

“I want to know what you know.”  Jaime glanced down at her before she continued.  “Ser Robert was not your only pet; there were others.  I need to know where they are.”  Qyburn began to sit taller in his crouched position in the cell.  “I need to know where you kept them.”

Silence lingered; before long, Qyburn slashed the darkness with a brittle thin laugh.  Brienne did not dare look away; she had learned long ago that it was men like Qyburn from whom she should never let her guard down in front of.  Choking back and then spraying out a blob of dark blood phlegm, the old man’s face, twisted in laughter; evidence of his torture shined through with a flashing row of splintered teeth behind his pulpy lips before he continued.  

“For all that I’ve done: The books that I’ve read, the lessons I’ve learned, the experiments I had performed...I now stand today accused of ‘dark arts’.”  An exhausted laughter continued.  “You are about to execute the most enlightened man in all of Westeros!  I am a man of science; I have devoted my entire life to the pursuit of knowledge. For all that cannot be described by the common man...if something strange happens and it is to their benefit, it becomes a sweet miracle--a gift from the gods.”  Jaime felt nervous as the old man continued.  Brienne didn’t blink as she watched the maester with guarded eyes and a lean face.  “But...when something strange happens...something that invokes fear in the hearts of the common man, something they can’t possibly begin to understand...suddenly it becomes ‘dark arts’ and sorcery.”  Brienne glanced down at the floor and watched the large cockroach struggle to find its way out of the bowl of watery gruel.      

“What many have called an abomination...I have called him my miracle.  Ser Robert...he knew pain, but he also knew great strength and infamy.  What warrior could be more pleased with a legacy such as that?”  

“Where. Are. They?”  Brienne’s felt her voice grew tight with a low snarl pulling at her face.

Jaime felt his face wrinkle with disgust as he watched the maester continued in a sinister whisper.  “And you my lady...what do I dare call _you_?”  Brienne felt a clutch of icy fear tear at the pale flesh of her throat.  “Do I dare call you a miracle...or are you just another _abomination_ as well?  You and Ser Robert...you are two sides of the same coin.”  

Feeling disgusted, Jaime tried to coax Brienne away from the cell; Brienne couldn’t move, she was too stunned to hear anything other than Qyburn’s haunted question.  Feeling her mouth go dry, Qyburn’s mad laughter rang out like brass bells in the wide hollows of the dungeon cells.  

“What is a horror but a dark truth that everyone chooses _not_ to understand?  I’ve not only looked into the face of horror, Lady Brienne, _I have sired it as well._ ”  Brienne knew she would receive no answers from this delirious madman; in spite of everything he continued to laugh through shattered teeth.  

To her relief, Brienne was thankful the golar had intervened; clubbing the tired mad man with a cudgel, she watched him crumple and fall to the dirt floor laughing as a shattered tooth was propelled from his mouth along with a ruby spray of blood and bile.  Pulling herself up to a standstill, Brienne looked down at Qyburn one final time before she turned to her husband.  Disgusted, Jaime looked down at the bowl of gruel with the drowning cockroach still in it and kicked it over, spraying his cold meal and the bucket of piss and shit all over the cell floor.  Finally liberated, the fat cockroach skittered away back into the all-encompassing darkness that surrounded them.  The way Jaime had seen it, no creature, no matter how foul should have to suffer the company of a revolting man such as Qyburn.

In his arm, he pulled her to his side; nudging his nose deep into her hair, he held her close.  Together, the left Traitor’s Walk without so much as a glance backwards.

“Daughter of fire!   _Bride of Ice?_  You are just as dark and perverted as Ser Robert was!”  

Brienne paused in her footsteps just as Jaime looked down at his wife to make certain she was well.  Wishing to forget the sound of Qyburn’s crazed mania, they continued on.  

“When the ravens blot out the sun and flood the skies, you will all soon envy the dead!”

Together they walked out, arm in arm from the black tunnel; Jaime briefly considered Brienne’s shadowless form before he felt the brutal hands of fear threatened to smother his heart.  Nuzzling his face into hers, he held her close to him.  He would not dwell on what he could not understand; Brienne was his sweet miracle, a gift from the gods.  

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

Within the hour, the hobbling, crippled form of the disgraced maester was escorted to the courtyard for his execution.  As Jaime read out his Qyburn’s death sentence, he struggled to say the words, ‘May the Father judge you justly.’

Tied down to the execution block with little resistance, Qyburn glared up at Brienne with his blood blistered face and his shattered teeth with a strange, vicious glee.  As the newly elected King’s Justice braced his sword over Qyburn’s neck, Jaime fiercely wished he would botch the execution just as the last one had done not so long ago.  Pulling his one hand into Brienne’s, he squeezed tight just as the blade fell across the former maester’s neck.  The sickening splat and rush of both blood and gore sprayed out as Qyburn’s head promptly rolled across the courtyard floor.  With a deep sigh, Brienne pulled her body closer to her husband’s before they made their way back to their new chambers.

Walking in a tense stroll wrapped in silence, Jaime kissed his wife’s cheek as she wrapped her arm around his waist; they were making their way to their new apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast when a courier intercepted them.  Removing the bound scroll from the young page’s hands, Jaime dismissed him before looking down at the telltale markings: it was bound in a bright orange wax seal with a glorious sun pierced by a spear.  

_Dorne_.

Letting out a watery sigh, Jaime looked at Brienne with a grim look on his face before he opened up the scroll.  With fingers that started to shake, he eventually opened it enough to read the contents of the note.  Eyes darting over the words several times over, Brienne tried to speak out to Jaime with a lace of dread in her voice.  Before a word could be spoken, he lowered the curling parchment with an ashen face and slackened expression.  Brienne felt her mouth go dry.

“It’s Myrcella…”  Brienne felt sick.  Jaime’s face started to crack with a cautious smile.  “She’s not infected…her ship sails to King’s Landing; she’ll be here soon.”  Surprised, delighted, Brienne smiled up at Jaime just as he wrapped his arms tight around her.  Holding him close, Brienne felt her heart grow with relief as a small laughter filled the air surrounding them.

It was a sweet day after all.  

 


	18. You Would Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family is reunited; a vow is completed; a terrifying discovery has been made.

The title for this chapter is inspired by the poem _You Would Come,_ by Pablo Neruda.  You can read it [here](https://poetonthemove.wordpress.com/2012/02/06/you-would-come-by-pablo-neruda/) if you wish.

 

\--------------------------

One month later:

 

The eerie calm of the Blackwater felt unnerving to Jaime.

He was astounded to realize that not a single bird could neither be seen nor heard all morning, unusual even with the onset of winter.

All soldiers could relate to the alarm that Jaime now felt: it didn’t matter if you were little more than a boy who could barely lift up a pike into battle, or if you were a proud lord’s son who fought side by side with famed knights and seasoned warriors; moments a battle, after the blades were honed and all of the nervous chatter faded away, the battlefield would turn eerie and grim with an oppressive silence moments before a skirmish. No frogs would croak, no birds would dare sing while the air turned thick and men feared to speak.

Soldiers of the Westerlands often referred to that heavy silence as the chilling ‘ _hush of doom_ ’; if you listened carefully, many would say you could hear the gasping moan of the Stranger as He walked amongst them in that terminal valley, creeping over their waiting graves with a soft howl of doom.

The king regent held back an unexpected shiver that tried to roll down his spine once the Dornish boat settled into port; Brienne's hand gently squeezed his warm arm with a thin smile and a silent question in her eyes. _Are you alright?_  Jaime could only smile back at his wife noncommittally.

Snarling Dornish commands and foreign insults were volleyed back and forth across the deck of the Martell ship, breaking the icy lull of the royal pier. Emerging from a crowd of dark and olive skinned Dornish men, Jaime saw her at last making her way down the salt stained gangplank, gliding down with the grace of a Bravosi water dancer. Brienne watched the young woman’s delicate, doe skinned slippers fall softly onto the creaking dock like a fine mist of sweet gentility.

Myrcella, the living shade of her dead mother, was finally home.

Jaime felt haunted by his daughter’s presence; her face, her skin, the steel in her green eyes and the unexpected quirk of her lips—all of it, just like her mother’s. Standing taller than he last saw her, Jaime felt his smile start to fall once he greeted a daughter that he was only acquainted with but he never really knew. The last time he saw her, Myrcella stood a foot taller than Tyrion; he remembered her as the once clumsy, toddling princess in Myrish lace and a gap toothed grin, always smiling up at him with a wicked laugh and an oblivious smile. When he last saw her, she had worn her hair in darling little ringlets, framing her luminous skin and playful eyes like a golden portrait

Clenching his jaw with numb resignation, Jaime realized that his little princess was no more; instead, she was now a young woman grown. She was poised and lithe like her mother, with stunning hair that seemed to glow like hammered gold flashing in the sun. Bundled in thick furs with a high, emerald-green collar obscuring the side of her ruined face, Myrcella’s complexion looked drawn, cautious and pale. King Tommen, desperate for what remained of his shattered family, broke royal protocol, letting go of his father's hand and ran towards his big sister. With a small flinch of recognition, Myrcella’s guarded face broke down with a tearful sigh; she knelt down to embrace her little brother with snug arms and an exhausted smile.

Brienne watched the siblings embrace and felt a small stab of jealousy linger in her heart; she couldn’t help but wonder how different things might have been for her had her brother lived. Perhaps she wouldn't have felt so alone or discarded during all of her impressionable years.

A faint murmuring could be heard between the little king and the princess. Jaime watched his daughter's face coil with horror and slow comprehension before she muttered a question into Tommen’s ear. With a faint nod into his sister's shoulder, Myrcella’s tight hold on her little brother quickly morphed into a crushing embrace.

Feeling the strength in her arms start to falter, the princess lifted her teary face and greeted her stoic uncle and his strange, rather startling bride. With a shy nod to Jaime, Myrcella finally met the much fabled warrior-turned-aunt, Lady Brienne of Tarth.

Far taller than she’d ever imagined, Myrcella blinked doubting eyes up towards her new aunt with a clear, objective gaze. She held back a wet sniffle and tried to absorb the presence of this imposing, muscular woman who stood an inch taller than her uncle and bore a hideous scar on her cheek, much like her. From the sight of Brienne’s thick, calloused fingers to her wide shoulders, Myrcella was slow to realize that the Lady of Tarth was also dressed curiously in men's breeches and a tunic as well.

While Dornish crew members worked with Lannister men to receive the princess’ items, Tommen valiantly wiped tears from his once rounded cheeks—quickly thinning from both stress and grief—and took his place next to his sister to speak in a thick, clearing voice.

“Myrcella? I have the honor of presenting you our aunt, Lady Brienne of Casterly and Tarth.”  

Words failed the young woman as she tried to absorb the mountainous height of new aunt; sensing her unease, Brienne forced herself to maintain a neutral, polite expression on her scarred face; for every second Jaime’s daughter stared at her in muteness, long withheld insecurities started to drone on louder in Brienne’s anxious mind.    

“Pleased to make your acquaintance…my… _Aunt_ Brienne.”

“Thank you, my lady.”  The eerie calm returned to the dock once more, much to Jaime's chagrin. With nervous glances between his estranged daughter, his singular bride and his oblivious son— _the king_ —Jaime felt his shoulders lower in defeat. _If only I had a sword to untangle all of these knots..._

From a distance, all four stood together on the dock in a domestic tableau of courtly etiquette, but up close, Jaime could read the tense apprehension on both his wife and children’s faces. Suddenly, Jaime felt like a great, thundering fool.

The knot he so inelegantly tied with his sister, that twisted, painful burden of heavy ropes—all bound and tightly knotted in his chest—started to weigh him down again, threatening to drown him under a generation of deceit. For once, Jaime felt so close to having it all, and yet, it was all still so painfully far away.

 

\---------------------------

 

“Since the Battle of the Blackwater, defense of the Crownlands have remained in a most perilous state when we compare it to what it was before the siege. The gates are all heavily reinforced and our walls are well maintained, but only a few of our war vessels have been recovered since the execution of the turncloak, Aurane Waters. We’ve lost most of our trebuchets to Stannis and we still haven’t replenished our armory with even half of the wildfire we’d spent on that night—”

“There will be no more talk about bloody _wildfire_ until I’ve given the matter further thought.”

Jaime’s cool, crisp voice sliced through the Master of Coin’s arduous plea, ending his petition to have the Alchemist Guild restock their arsenals with pots of wildfire. In a brief flash, Jaime’s eyes locked onto Brienne’s from across the small council table with a dark, knowing look.

Chilling memories of a confession Jaime once made in the bathhouses of Harrenhal suddenly filled Brienne’s mind. She knew how much the discussion of wildfire made him feel nervous. Squirming in discomfort, Jaime artfully led the discussion towards another priority in the defense of King’s Landing.

The small council meetings were fascinating to her, but once their afternoon session started to drift into its third hour most assembled there turned restless while Jaime always remained sharp and focused. As patient as Brienne was, she could start to feel one of her legs turn numb, threatening to fall asleep soon after; before long, she knew she would have little choice but to take a small break.  Brienne rose from her chair with as much discretion as someone like her could allow. It was always surprising for her to see every lord there—including the little king—rise up to their feet in a show of respect once she stood up and mumbled out her pardon.  Blushing with downcast eyes, she felt Jaime's warm breath tease her ear before she could step away from the table; with a low whisper, her husband offered to grant everyone a small break just to make her feel less conspicuous.

“No.”  Brienne's soft reply soon turned to the council table while she made fleeting glances to all, including the little king. “My apologies my lords...your Grace. I'll only be a moment.”  Offering up an awkward bow to the council, everyone returned a brief, respectful bow in turn shortly before she turned around. For one moment, Brienne even saw Tommen throw her a shy smile before she left the chambers.

Making her way back towards the throne room after a brief trip to the privy, Brienne heard small footsteps gain on her. Once the sound of stumbling feet and anxious breathing filled the cavernous bends of the great hall, Brienne had no doubt who was racing up behind her; the clumsy, shambling feet clearly belonged to Jaime's squire, Peck.

“My lady.  If you’d be— _be so_ —” With one hand extended upwards, Brienne watched a thin scroll, bound with a blue seal rise up in Peck’s hand; on the seal was a proud falcon flying high above a crescent moon. With gradual understanding, Brienne felt her face start to dissolve with a nervous chill. _Podrick..._

While Peck gasped and panted with exhaustion, Brienne faintly realized that the poor lad must have been running from the rookery all the way down to the great hall without stopping. With numb fingers, Brienne cracked the brittle seal, fumbling open the tightly wound scroll while unchecked fears raced through her mind.

    _"My Lady,_

_The Wolf has found a new den. Lady Sansa quietly rules the Vale now; her husband, Lord Baelish, suffered a tragic accident here,_

_falling from the moon door shortly after they were wed. We have been offered sanctuary here at Bloody Gate until winter’s end._

_Pod.”_

It was too sweet. Re-reading the letter several times over, Brienne was oblivious to Peck’s curious gaze while a swell of pride started to fill her chest. With a quirk of joy on her lips, Brienne looked down at the squire with forgetfulness: Peck was waiting to see if Lady Brienne had a reply for him to send.  Shaking her head ‘no’ with a great smile, the thin lad staggered away with a stitch in his side while Brienne took a seat on a window ledge just to re-read the letter once more.   

For a long time Brienne stared down at the note, permitting the inky black lines to blur before her eyes with teary relief while quiet amazement filled her heart. She was moved to hear from her father that Pod had taken up her quest to find Lady Sansa after she’d passed away.  And now, to hear that Sansa was at last found—safe—and ruling the Vale, it all felt like some wondrous dream to Brienne.  

She was intensely proud of her former squire. Pod was little more than a child, but Brienne felt a growing respect for him during their travels together. The lad was loyal, strong-willed, quick to learn and tenacious like a winter wind. In many ways, Pod reminded her of herself when she was a child.

As her wide, blue eyed gaze drifted down from the scroll to the marble tiles on the floor, Brienne started to realize that in many ways it was easy for her to think of Pod as a son to her; she wanted nothing more than to give the boy a hug and tell him how proud she was.  Soon, thoughts of Pod quickly turned into sobering feelings she had for both Tommen and Myrcella.  

Several days had passed since Myrcella’s return to King’s Landing. For Brienne, the strange relationship between her and Jaime's children began to chip away at all of her chalky hopes. Though Tommen was sweet and tenderhearted, he still had a lot of complex emotions to deal with. Jaime assured Brienne, many times over, that the boy made peace with his mother’s death; but even then, Brienne could sense a note of discord in Tommen every time a conversation drifted towards his mother or ‘father’, King Robert. In spite of all that had happened between her and the little king, Brienne knew Tommen was making a sincere effort to welcome his new aunt into his life.  As for Myrcella however, that was another matter onto its own...      

Dazed in her pride for Podrick, unsettled by her doubts over her new place in the Lannister family, Brienne unknowingly ran a palm over her stomach, wondering if or when she would have a child of her own. Though Jaime didn't obsess over the status of her fertility, she knew he was still keen on becoming a true father. Though he never spoke the words, Brienne would often hear his voice drift away into a thoughtful silence and a private smile whenever he found himself in the presence of children. It was then Brienne started to reflect on how hard it must have been for Jaime to be a father for so long but to deny his own seed.

“There you are.”  

Brienne flinched from her dazed expression; standing before her in the great hall, Jaime tried to gauge his wife's countenance with a flirtatious look in his eyes. She could feel a slight flush of embarrassment climb up her neck once she realized that she’d been away from the small council meeting far longer than she had intended.

Over Jaime’s shoulder, Brienne watched members of the small council part ways in the great hall, all of them scattering with blank expressions and tired eyes buried in their faces. Seeing her husband lean in for a kiss, Brienne smiled up at him in spite of all of the doubts she’d entertained just moments ago. Jaime mumbled close to Brienne's ruined cheek with a sly tone once their lips had gradually parted.

“Can't blame you for trying to sneak out; those damned meetings are always so tedious.” One hand, warm and firm, held onto Brienne’s waist with a small, lustful squeeze while his voice dropped down by an octave. “If it were up to me, I’d lock us away in our bed chamber and throwaway the key.”

A small purr rolled in the back of his throat while his nose drifted closer to her ear; Brienne's rose-pink blush finally carried its way up her cheeks while a nervous laugh started to rise in her throat. With a small pause, Jaime looked down at Brienne’s hands and found a scroll wedged into her lap.  

“What’s this?”  Taking a step back from her, Brienne felt a cautious smile crawl over her face once Jaime looked down at her in genuine wonder.  Holding up the note to him with a beaming grin, she watched her husband start to finger open the scroll in her patient hands while she held her breath.  She happily waited for Jaime to read the good news: she wanted to be the one to see his handsome face when he finally learned that Sansa Stark—a long held vow they had once upheld together—was found at last.

 

\-------------------------  

 

“I fear that I’ll be losing my sight before long.”

Lord Selwyn didn’t expect for his daughter to hear his idle musings; he only muttered those words to himself while staring down at the tips of his dull boots with unfocused eyes.  Evenfall was fast approaching in the solar of his guest chambers while he sank back further in his overstuffed chair next to a sunny window. Once the lord had spoken, Brienne turned around to face him with a cold splash of alarm running down her face. Slowly, her father continued.

“Either that, or I’m simply exhausted by trying to read this damned book.”  A thick tome bound in soft, honey brown leather was irreverently tossed down with a dull bang onto the table next to him; from the impact, a small plume of dust lifted up from its thin, gilded pages.  “I swear, if I have to read one more line about King Robert’s _brilliance_ in the bloody rebellion _he_ started, I might go blind with rage.”

Brienne closed her eyes in muted relief but her face still cringed with guarded frustration. Though it was unlikely that anyone might have heard him, she couldn’t help but feel a protective instinct take over for Jaime’s children. For better or worse, King Robert was the only father Tommen and Myrcella would ever know, as painful as that fact was for Jaime.  

“ _Father_ …”

The Lord of Tarth raised up his careless hands in mock surrender. From the cool edge of his daughter’s tone he knew that he was being cynical while he said such tactless things, but he also remembered Robert’s Rebellion well and the impact it left on the good people of Tarth. Thousands of boys, young men and husbands—with crops to harvest and children to raise—were all butchered like hogs in the Stormlands just so that one man’s ego might be assuaged from the sudden loss of his betrothed.

Selwyn understood the bitter pain of losing a sweetheart, but he also knew that war was never an answer to such private heartache. For him, war was a madness that only begets madness; with revenge, the petulant seeds of discord were thusly sown for a new revenge.            

Walking up to her father with a half smirk on her ruined cheek, Brienne reached down to feel the papery skin of her father’s hand between her fingers; she looked over his shoulder and found that he was trying to read _The Glorious History of Robert’s Rebellion_. Out of the dozens of books that were left in his guest chambers, this was the last book Lord Selwyn had yet to read since his visit in the Red Keep.  

“Have pity of your dear old father, Brinnie.” Tempted to roll her eyes, she remained silent while an indulgent grin crept over his face. From his comfortable seat in the chair he looked up at the towering form of his daughter as she loomed overhead.  “An old man like me can only endure so many tales of chivalry before he understands that most are great piles of horse shit magically spun into gold.”

A sputter of laughter filled the sunny-gold room.  Brienne easily imagined hearing those exact words from Jaime just then. Squeezing his hand back tight, she carefully made a seat on the floor next to her father’s long legs in the warm sun. Small dust motes floated in the sunbeams while she looked up at her father with a placid face and a quiet joy. With a thin sigh of contentment, Lord Selwyn inquired about his daughter’s new role as a member of the small council.

“What is your opinion of these small council meetings?  Do you have any sense that there is progress being made?”  Brienne nodded her head slowly while trying to formulate an honest answer in her head.  Searching for tactful words, she began to fidget with the laces on her boots with a slight frown and a soft hum of consideration.   

“I would say yes. Tommen shows promise to one day be a good king, and I feel that Jaime makes a finer regent than he’ll ever admit to.” Selwyn nodded his head in firm agreement to his daughter's opinions.  “ _However_...I’m still at a loss as to why I’ve been invited to attend such private matters of state.”

Lord Selwyn scoffed deep into his chest.  “Because, sweetling, Jaime is far wiser than most will assume: of all of the men assembled in those meetings, you’re the only person who spent the most time with the common folk of the Riverlands.” Brienne was slow to nod her head with reluctant agreement.  “Plump lords with soft, lily white hands—men who’ve never carried a sword into battle—are always quick to preach about what is good for the realm without ever setting foot beyond their castle walls.  But you were there, my dear. You’d spent time with the common men of the realm.”  Brienne’s hands grew still on her boot laces once she began to absorb her father’s words.  “Your husband is a good man but even he knows his own limits; he was raised with the incomprehensible privileges as Tywin Lannister’s son; he may _sympathize_ with the struggles of the common man but it’s fair to point out that you’re someone who _understands_ them.”    

A pregnant pause filled the room. There was a look of doubt that curdled Brienne’s war battered face.  Letting out a deep breath, Selwyn continued on with a puzzled look on his brow.  “What’s troubling you, Brienne?  Surely, you’re not disappointed that your squire found Lady Sansa before you did.”  His daughter quickly shook her head ‘no’.  After a long moment of silence she carefully replied in a soft, nervous voice.

“I—I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about Tommen and Myrcella as of late.” Lord Selwyn nodded his head with brief understanding.  “I feel like…”

Brienne shrugged her shoulders once her words started to trail off into a fog of apprehension. A dawn of recognition began to register on her father’s lined and noble face. “...like a blind mule tied to the wrong end of a cart?”

A gentle smile coiled on her lips in reluctant agreement. If only she could tell him the truth: had it been any other marriage, Brienne would now be a mother to Jaime’s children, but at the crux of it, she could never be their mother without destroying the newfound peace the realm struggled with. She tried to assume the role of a surrogate, but she felt confused for every word she spoke to them. All of her doubts as a parent to Jaime’s children began to chip away at Brienne’s soapstone confidence.

“Being wedded to a man who assumes the responsibilities that Ser Jaime does is no easy feat. It’s good that you want to be a mother figure to the little king and his sister, but you can’t force anything, dearest; you’ll have to respect the fact that they will open up to you when _they’re_ ready.”

Brienne felt dismayed by her father’s gentle words. She wished she could understand how Tommen and Myrcella must have felt, but she was at a total loss; she never knew the blessing or burdens of having a second mother.

"Father..."  Brienne’s question almost trailed back into a dwindling silence; she felt a coil of embarrassment start to twist in her stomach. Suddenly aware that her mouth was hung wide open, Brienne snapped it shut with the flash of a nervous smile before she continued.  

"I’ve been wondering… Why didn't you remarry?"  Selwyn felt his expression start to unravel by a modicum while he waited for his daughter to continue. "You could’ve chosen any woman in the Stormlands to be your wife. You could have had another child...a s-son."  The tired lord's expression blanched slightly; Brienne completed her thought with a timid voice. "I’ve always wanted to know: why didn't you?"

Scrubbing a weary hand over his chin, the Lord of Tarth sighed while his last child took a seat across from him in the warm, drowsy sunlight. Though it unnerved him, he glanced down briefly at the shadowless form of his daughter moments before he answered her question. Waiting for her to settle in, Lord Selwyn looked away, fidgeted with the book’s silk marking ribbon before he answered her question in a dry, hollow tone.

"The day I lost your mother, Brienne...that was the day the light went out of my life.”

Selwyn’s calm face started to turn dark under the leaden cloak of memories. With pain, he recalled all of the dark choices he made since the night Lillian died: in the arms of heartbreak and in the shadows of destruction, Selwyn no longer saw himself as a man fit to join the realm of the living; instead, he clung onto the halcyon days of an idealized past while he endured a fleeting obligation to the present. As much as it hurt to live, he tried to console himself everyday he had to abide with a dark, thoughtless abandon.  In defeat, Selwyn made a chilling promise to himself whenever he struggled to breathe or had to fight back tears: _Soon; it’ll all be over soon_.

Soon, he told himself, soon he would be greeted by Lillian on the other side. He made that grim promise to himself for every flask of strong wine he drank, for every dangerous journey he sailed upon and for every lady he recklessly bedded.

But as he sat there, looking down at his daughter’s bright, hopeful eyes, he muddled for an excuse but failed to offer one that would make him seem noble or wise. So instead, he tried to sweeten the sour taste of his bitter truth: that on the night his wife died, his heart died along with her. Struggling for words, Selwyn looked down at the book he was reading and winced.

“Brienne. Have you ever read a book so lovely—so enchanting, you wished the story would never end?”  Slow to understand, Brienne reluctantly nodded her head. Selwyn felt relieved.  “Your mother wasn’t just some high-born maid I’d wedded to fulfill my duty and provide an heir to Tarth.  Your mother was a book that was written without blemish; a beautiful, imperfect story.” Something raw and unexpected started to well up in Brienne’s blue eyes. “Lillian was a tall tale, my comedy; a wild adventure and my romance.  My breathless thrill… And like any magnificent story, I fell in love with her completely, flaws and all. I loved her in every chapter, every verse, every footnote that could be found and every riddle she left unanswered. But somehow along the way, in those beloved pages unfolded a tragedy that even I knew we couldn’t avoid.”

Tears wanted to fall from Brienne’s fixed gaze; instead she blinked them back. Clearing his thick voice, Selwyn continued.  “I never wanted that story to end... _but it did_.” The lord of Tarth’s eyes were not as determined as were his daughter’s; a smudged tear slipped past his pride, sneaking into the vellum folds beneath his heartbroken eyes. “And no matter how many other books I’ve read, no matter how many other stories unfolded...none could hold up a candle to your mother, dearest; compared to her, all other women read like shallow leaflets to me. And no other story will ever hold that power over me again.

“Your mother was my hero, Brienne; a breathtaking adventure that should have lived on forever in song. And I... _I_ was grateful just to be a side note to her beautiful story; I was just a lowly, _yet_ loving foil to her saga…” In spite of the tears, a watery chuckle somehow fell from his sardonic mouth. “She was the song to end all songs. She was my greatest journey, and what an adventure her love was.”

Sunlight began to change from the shine of brass to a blood-orange sky, quickly fading past the dark horizon of the Red Keep. As dark shadows began to claim the unblemished half of Brienne’s face, the lord of Tarth looked out towards the dwindling glow of daylight and smiled to himself once more, lost in all of the memories he still held dear to his heart.

 _“What an adventure…_ ”      

 

\---------------------------

 

Later that night, in the darkened halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Brienne caught a fleeting glance of Jaime’s tense back; he was facing a shadowy corner of the hall with hunched shoulders and a looming air in his posture. His daughter, Myrcella, could be seen standing in his dark shade, sullen and dismissive while avoiding his eyes with a blank face and an annoyed huff to her breath.

From such a distance their words could not be distinguished. Brienne watched Myrcella look up at her father with irritation and a bewildered look to her eyes; father and daughter had been speaking there at length for some time. Once Myrcella’s darting eyes caught a fleeting glance of Brienne from across the hall, her petulant face morphed into a stony pillar of silence. With lowered eyes and thin lips, Myrcella made her excuses to Jaime before he gave her his leave while she adjusted her hair to cover the disfiguring scar on her face.

Brienne knew that their conversation didn’tt end well. For the rest of the evening Jaime was quick to spoil her with unexpected kisses and gentle words of love; but no matter how hard he tried to convince her that everything was fine, Brienne couldn’t help but note the nervousness in eyes and the insecure tilt to his voice. When he thought she wasn’t looking, Jaime had the defeated expression of a man who struggled with the opaque rules that were only known between daughters and wives.

Though Brienne was a seasoned warrior, ruthless with blade and rough with her hands, she was still a woman with a gentle heart and a tender soul, a vulnerability in her that could not be concealed behind armor or battle cries. Jaime knew that his wife was hurt by Myrcella’s cool reception of her but he was taken aback by something he’d saw earlier that night: over the course of dinner he watched his daughter throw a disgusted sneer at Brienne’s mangled cheek. Brienne saw Myrcella’s glare at her from the corner of her eye. Though she never made a comment about it, Brienne already knew that Myrcella was appalled by her aunt’s looks; it wasn't the first time she had sneered at her like that.

Later that night, Brienne happily watched her husband sleep. Hugging her knees close to her chest, she watched him dream with devoted fascination. She listened to him snore, she watched him twist in his sleep; she even saw him smile once or twice in his slumber even.

Like smoky traces of vapor, her fingers skimmed the lines of his lean back, over his wide shoulders; down his legs, up his arms, carefully tracing over the darling shell of his ear with a smile on her face. Like a haunt, she slipped and skidded the bulbs of her fingers over his stomach just to watch his body’s slow reaction. Finally, her fingers started to trail over his hand with a slow, sweet endearment.

Long, rugged fingers, blistered and hardened from years of sword fights, tourneys and battles, mysteriously transformed into the soft glide of skin at the heel of his palm. Stirring from the rich pull of dreams, Jaime laid on his back while Brienne snuck closer to his warm body like a protective shadow.

Fine and delicate like a summer breeze, Brienne’s thumb started to graze a fluttering trail over the bow of his soft lips; down the length of his neck, all the way down to the soft depression of flesh between his collarbones. A slow line of irregular fingernails began a trail over his clavicle with a slow, torturous speed and a blush in her cheeks.  No matter how many times they coupled, Brienne still glanced at his face in bed with an innocent, bashful smile. Gradually, she began to trace her fingers from the hot skin of his bobbing throat to the silver and gold hairs scattered along his chest; though she moved with a slow and delicate pace, from the corner of her eye she saw a twitch flash across his lax cheek.

“I knew you were playing possum.”

A sudden chuff of warm air rushed over Brienne’s arm; Jaime’s amused sigh only provided further evidence that he was far removed from sleep. A wide, reluctant smile crossed his face; though his eyes were closed, his chest began to tremble in quiet laughter. “I thought you were supposed to be a man of honor.”

“Haven't you heard, Wench?” Bright green eyes were finally revealed along with a playful laugh rising to his mouth. “There is no honor in love or war: there is only greed, lust and madness.” Brienne hummed with thought. “I must admit that I am a greedy man when it comes to your touch.”

Brienne hugged her knees closer to her chest while she smiled down upon him. Though she was a married woman, she still clung onto modesty with a strategic placing of white bed sheets over her body. “No honor in war...that I can accept. But no honor in love?” Jaime rolled onto his side with his healed wrist supporting the weight of his head.

“Honor is no more than shallow praise that makes you think that you’re loved. But for love? Complete and undoubted love? I would do anything for you, Brienne; honor and vows be damned.  A man in love doesn't think of honor or the praise of strangers; a man in love feels invincible whereas a man of honor only feels obligation.” Brienne wanted to disagree; instead she smiled.  “And if I may be so bold…” He started to play with the hem of her annoying bed sheets. “...I’ll assume that any man who clings to honor like a shield has never known the sweet pain of true love.”

Deft fingers snuck under the cool bed sheets; Brienne exhaled with reserved pleasure once his hand began to stroke the lines of her outer thigh. She wanted to give in to her husband’s seduction but failed. It wasn't until he’d spoken of the ‘sweet pain’ of love did she falter; with torture, she remembered all of the tearful prayers Jaime once made to her after she died. Choking back on a suddenly dry knot in her throat, Brienne grabbed ahold of Jaime’s stroking hand in a firm grip; mournful eyes darted over his face when she spoke to him in a slow, soft voice.

“For all of the pain I’ve caused… With all my heart, I grieve the most for all of the hurt I’d done to you.” Jaime’s face started to fall like slow trails of wax melting from a candle. “I regret hurting you more than anything _. I love you_.”  A bashful smile came to life on his face. “Even then, before I died, I loved you with more than I ever knew possible.”

Lazy gold curls brushed over her shoulders while she shook her head ‘no’ with a painful look spun on her face. “And when the Brotherhood demanded your head—” Tears gathered in a shattered voice; Jaime’s face softened in compassion as her words fell with a sharp, teary whisper. “I love you so much... _it scares me_. How can you love me, Jaime? How can you love me after I’ve caused you so much pain?”

Under the bedsheet, Jaime’s thumb stroked over the back of Brienne’s hand before he let it go to wipe away the rebellious tears on her cheeks. Slow to speak, he finally answered her question with a low, gentle voice.

“Love can’t exist without pain, Brienne; no more than a flame can be divided from its shadows. I mourned you, with every breath inside of me. But no matter how much I grieved…” Words failed him momentarily; finally, he continued. “...it never really felt like I lost you. I watched you die, yes… but even then, it always felt like you were always with me; as if you were standing right there behind me.” With tear glazed eyes, Brienne smiled down at him.  “It felt as though you were always in the next room, patiently waiting for me. In spite all of my pain, I don't think I ever truly suffered your loss, love.”  

 Determined to make his point known, Jaime sat up while he tugged Brienne closer to his lap by locking his arms beneath the arch of her bent legs.  A painful wince crossed her face once his eyes fell upon hers; Jaime wiped away her tears again with a soft rumble in his voice.

“I think I was just waiting for you. It was almost as if I knew that we would somehow find each other again someday.” He kissed her scarred cheek; she gasped with a teary smile. “I love you—with all that I am, with all that I hope to be.” He kissed her mouth. Swallowing back on her tears, she kissed him back.

Under the spell of his kisses, Brienne felt her legs start to straddle Jaime’s thighs. He gasped once she began to coo and hum with a breathless wonder. The rasp of hair on his legs brushed against the soft flesh between her legs; it was all beginning to feel like some beautiful torture to her. Her breathing started to labor, his heart began to hammer. With only his shortened arm, he buried his wrist deep into her pale blonde hair. She held him close, burying her mouth beneath his ear and sighed; with a soft kiss to the scar on her neck, Jaime fiercely hugged her while she hugged him back.

"I missed you."

Brienne was afraid that Jaime didn't hear her over the sound of her broken whisper.

He did.  

Slow, practiced fingers skimmed along the back of his neck, teasing his ear by faintly nuzzling his lobe with her soft lips; to her delight, she heard him hum in total surrender to her kiss. Aroused by the very sound of him, Brienne playfully nipped at Jaime’s ear some more; she wanted the smell of his skin to be the only air she breathed while she gasped into his flushed neck without shame.  

 _That's not fair_ , he thought, _she knows my ears are my undoing…_

Something gave pause to Jaime’s intrusive thought. _Haven’t I dreamt this before? Is this real? Or have I finally gone mad?_

All thoughts and wonders quickly began to unravel once he felt her shift her weight above his thighs. Feeling brave, Brienne slowly mounted her body over his eager hips, savoring to feel his arousal once it started to tease the primed flesh between her thighs. Nervous, she slowly guided him into her wet folds while Jaime let out a deep groan of relief. As the sound of her maidenly gasps filled their bed, Brienne seated herself down upon his trembling body like an undoubted queen; though she was nervous, she started to relax once she rested her palms onto his chest, gently pushing him back down with a shuddering exhale.

Nervous green eyes looked up at his wife; Jaime was trying to gauge any signs of pain that he might have caused her. With reverence, his lone hand started to ghost up her thigh, fingers fluttering over the line of her hipbone. Finally, his hand came to rest in the soft valley between her breasts. Jaime placed his palm over Brienne’s heart once she settled herself onto him fully. Doubtful fingers started to trace the soft skin over her breastbone.  Staring at her chest, Jaime trailed his fingers over her heart with a soft wonder. _Here is where you love me. It’s only here that I’ve finally met my honor._

Brienne’s eyes fell shut once she guided his hand up to her face, resting his fingers over her wound to conceal the bite mark on her cheek.  He felt his wrist brush up against a hard nipple while his hand stroked over her face with a tenderness he never knew he’d possessed. Once he let out a full sigh, Brienne locked eyes onto his before she started to roll her hips over his body. Jaime could feel the beat of his heart start to slam in his throat once he heard a small grunt fall out of her mouth. Without any cares, Brienne started to ride his body with a thoughtful, commanding rhythm. Thankful and breathless, Jaime's heart began to swell with an enveloping love while he wove his fingers into her hair, carefully guiding her face back down towards his own.

They kissed again; for every word of love that failed them, they would find a new word together in the artful roll of their secret language; a language so perplexing and beautiful, their sacred vows could only be known in the ghostly whispers of tireless mouths. These unfathomable words were the ancient lyrics to a secret hymn that only love could define and respect could distinguish. For every loving touch that graced each other's bodies, a new chorus would start to rise up from their immortal harmony.

Together, they were drowning; together, they were breathing in a new life.

Unbeknownst to either of them, a child was conceived from that tender union.

 

_\--------------------------_

 

The eerie calm of the fighting arena felt unnerving to Brienne.

She was astounded to realize there wasn't a person to be found seated in the great amphitheater. The air felt charged with a static hum while she searched all around her for answers. High above her, the fragile echo of rustling silks and leather boots quietly announced the arrival of both Tommen and Myrcella. Brienne was taken aback by how indifferent they seemed once the children claimed their seats in the royal balcony. She felt lonely and discarded once she saw how passive they were when they both looked down on her.

Standing in attention at the center of the battle floor, Brienne was armored in the matte black steel the Faith had given her to wear. The seven pointed star mounted on her breastplate was no longer made of red enamel; instead, dead, oozing blood dripped down into fat droplets from the lines of the star before they fell in a thick, dark-red sludge pooling between her feet. Beneath the menacing shadows of the balcony, dressed in the gleaming white armor of the Kingsguard, Brienne was at last greeted by her opponent: he was a dead mountain made of horror and reanimated flesh.

Jaime was nowhere to be found.

The crisp scent of a rising snowstorm filled the air; cold winds burned her nostrils for every breath she tried to pull in. She could hear her breathing start to turn rapid before it fell unstable, echoing in the chamber of her helm while a soft whimper climbed at the back of her throat. Through the slats of her helm she could see the heavy feet of her opponent once he moved closer to the center of the arena. She looked down at her hands and prepared herself for battle, trying to formulate how she would make her inevitable counter strike. It wasn't until that moment when she looked down, Brienne finally realized that her hands were nothing more than just pale flesh; trembling, unarmored and bare.

_Oathkeeper. I need Oathkeeper…_

Every step he made rang out with a squeaking, heavy groan; it was a dull squeal of metal grinding against metal, piercing her ears and making her teeth clench down in fear. The creaks and moans of the white armor started to sing out together into a hellish choir of doom. The ground beneath started to tremor and quake with the heavy thud of his rapidly growing footsteps. Fat snowflakes started to tumble down from the sky, quickly obscuring her view almost entirely. Frozen with fear, Brienne looked up at her opponent while a dead scream tried to rise up from her shallow lungs.

As he finally made his way closer to her, the mountain made of putrescence lifted the thick visor to his groaning helm. Brienne saw nothing distinguishable in the black void he unveiled to her—only a never ending river of black blood started to pour out across his breastplate instead. From the absence of where his head should have been she could hear the haunting abomination tried to pull in a great, staggering breath. With terror, she could hear the wet clack of his death rattle once it began to roar with life. In the dark void of his helm, bright blue eyes started to flicker with life.

Feeling her heartbeat try to race out of her chest, she watched the living horror start to loom above her, swallowing her into its black shadow. Brienne had to fight for just enough breath to scream.

 

\---------------------------

 

She woke up with the panic of a drowning gasp.

Bolting upright from Jaime’s arms, Brienne twisted around the bed sheets in a blind, scrambling daze. Icy fear ran cold through her blood and tore at her chest while she clutched onto the bedsheets so she could conceal her naked form. The dark whine of terror still rang out clear in her mind like a distant sept bell, clanging and ringing for her in the dark mist of vile dreams. Panicked, she desperately scoured the bed for her sword; not able to find Oathkeeper, Brienne felt hot tears start to fall from her sightless eyes.  She didn’t recognize the room she was sleeping in; what was worse, she couldn't even remember where she was.

Hearing the rustle of blankets and bedsheets rise behind her, Brienne flinched in terror while a large hand and a warm arm fell around her shoulders, trying to hold her still once a fresh panic started to unfold within. After a few moments of struggling in his arms, Brienne seemed to finally calm down. His skin was warm, his scent was lulling and his voice was hushed and dear to her; Jaime pulled his face closer to his wife’s ear, desperate to keep her in his arms while she fought back tears.

“You're alright, it’s over; it was a dream, love. Over— _it’s over_.”

Slowly, the twisted, unfamiliar shapes of the dark started to form and look familiar to her. They were in their new room, a lavish apartment in the private keep of Maegor’s Holdfast. Blinking back tears, Brienne felt her shuddering fears start to diminish once the chilling hush of doom started to fill their bed chambers.  

“ _Shhhh_.” Jaime fell silent; Brienne’s sharp hush made his blood run cold.  

Jaime’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness surrounding him. Faintly, he was able to see the wispy outline of his wife’s golden hair; she was facing their bedroom door with a calm, steely patience. The great door to their room was made of thick oak; it was heavily barred and well locked and it was guarded by a member of the Kingsguard outside in their private hall. But still, nothing could be heard other than the sound of Brienne’s slow, unsteady breathing.

Long moments passed. Still, there was nothing. Undeterred by the quiet in the room, Brienne pulled herself out of Jaime’s arms and started to fumble around in the dark for her clothing.  Confused by her actions, still struggling to wake up himself, Jaime watched Brienne lace up her breeches beneath her billowing tunic while he dragged his tired limbs out of bed before he lit a candle near him.

“Brienne...there’s no one here—”

A sharp knock on the door suddenly broke the dark spell of the quiet.

“My lord?  My lord!” Jaime suddenly felt a black chill running down his spine.  Brienne paused as she tucked her shirt into her breeches while her knowing eyes locked onto her husband’s from across the room. “My lord there is a matter of great urgency that needs your immediate attention.”   Dumbfounded, Jaime peeled himself out of bed with numb legs and a tailspin of questions littering his thoughts; without any care for his appearances, he threw on a long sleeping tunic over his body moments before Brienne opened their door. Feeling an air of offense cloud his temper, Jaime stepped in front of his wife with guarded fear while armored men filled the hall outside their living quarters.

“What is the meaning of this?” The newly appointed commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Darren Swann entered the room with a respectful nod to Lady Brienne before he approached Jaime.  With Lannister guards in attendance, he addressed the king regent with a devoted air in his voice.

“My lord, I have received grave reports of an alarming disturbance found inside the dungeons. Your immediate attention is required at once.”

From across the room, a dull look of perplexity spoiled Jaime’s brow; his eyes turned to Brienne from across the room, quietly searching her face answers. By the dim light of the hallway, he watched her walk towards him while she shrugged her arms into a jerkin with a soft look of resignation in her eyes.  Her blue eyes followed his carefully before she spoke to him in a low whisper.

“It’s Qyburn, Jaime.  They found them.”

 

\---------------------------

  
The ominous sound of a lone, steady drip welcomed Jaime to the dark passageways of the dungeons.     

Careful to avoid all of the squeaking vermin that darted past his boots, the king regent grabbed ahold of Brienne’s hand while he followed the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Winding down the drafty stairwell past the third level of the dungeons—the dreaded black cells—Jaime felt his mouth grow dry with a smoldering dread.  A long procession of Lannister guards marched down the winding staircase behind them with flickering torches and clicking, militant footsteps.  

Cautiously throwing a glance over his shoulder, he tried to read Brienne’s face for answers but he only felt more haunted rather than assured by her serene face.  Not willing to say anything that might jeopardize all that they had fought for, Brienne didn’t respond to Jaime’s silent questions; instead, she only squeezed his hand and offered him up a noncommittal smile.  

Quickly breezing past the third level of the black cells he was discouraged to find that they were making their way down towards the fourth level of the dungeons; this was where all of the Crown’s malicious torturing had been performed in the past.

All Jaime could do now was pray to the gods that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would not lead them down towards the fifth level of the dungeons.

Clipped footsteps sloshed through icy puddles of water—some of the guards behind Brienne even muttered about walking through puddles of blood as well. Though the Lannister guards were fearsome, well-seasoned men, Brienne heard some of the men whisper to each other about the horrors they saw in the flickering light of their passing torches.

Though she kept her eyes on the path forged by her husband and the Lord Commander, Brienne overheard the sharp whispers of disbelief once they made their way deeper into the dungeon. One man whispered of seeing dozens of bloated corpses found skewered to a wall covered in long, rusted spikes; a few guards raised their torches overhead and found a score of dead men still trapped inside the small confines of swinging metal cages—their faces were all swollen in decay, with clouded, sunken eyes and jaws permanently unhinged in a disfigured howl. In another corridor Brienne saw a putrid mountain of dissolving corpses—milky green skin and glossy, slipping off of bone and cartilage; they were mounted high on top of each other like piles of molded leaves swept clean from the road.  

The rank putrescence would rise and swell as the train of men passed through the long corridors of the chamber; each room they passed was filled with strange, godless horrors of death and torture—but the worst was yet to be seen.

“My apologies, Ser Jaime.” The Lord Commander spoke over his shoulder. “These chambers have been long neglected for some time now.  We’d been assured by the undergaoler that all was up to par and maintained in these cells—now it turns out none of the turnkeys for these chambers have been seen nor heard since the Queen’s trial by combat.” Sweat gathered in Jaime’s palm once their pathway started to falter in the presence of a great stone wall, revealing a secret passageway that was once hidden behind a thick curtain of cobwebs and dust. Sputtering flames from the guard’s torches illuminated a concealed antechamber that led them all towards a hellish sight:

A long, cavernous hall, cool and spacious—twice the size of the throne room—was filled with a grim procession of wooden operating tables, all neatly lined up like the tidy graves of honored soldiers. On each table laid the corpse of a man, or at least, the remains what _used_ to be a man.  

Though Brienne had prepared herself for all that what was about to unfold, still, the memories of her battle with Ser Robert Strong assaulted her nerves while she looked over the mortal assembly with a sickening dread. _Just as Thoros had said: this was Qyburn’s masterpiece; this was to be his legacy..._         

From one end of the great hall, a sharp echo carried the sound of two guards crying out in horror; soon after, sprays of vomit were belched up from their mouths. Jaime ran towards the stricken guards with Darren Swann in tow. One Lannister guard darted past Brienne, looking as if he were about to vomit as well. Following Jaime’s path, Brienne started to count the lines of operating tables that were neatly spaced apart.  At five tables abreast, she was horrified to see her count rise so swiftly while making her way towards the back of the hall.   _Seven…  Eight…  Nine…_

At the end of the darkened chamber, the flutter of bat wings could be heard over the weepy groans of the men who’d thrown up. The Lord Commander held up a torch over the sickened men before mumbling a prayer to the Mother while Jaime gasped and Brienne felt her heart jump out of her throat.  

Under the light of Darren Swann’s torch, Jaime and Brienne found the reanimated corpse of a woman strapped down to a blood stained table.  A white sheet stained with black blood concealed her naked form. Her skin was milky white, almost blue, with black spider webbed veins under the surface of her skin.  She was emaciated; thick cords in her neck danced and swelled as if though she were trying to speak. Her lips were chapped like fish scales; her breath was unspeakably foul while the leathery stump of her tongue clacked and gagged, failing to create her dusty words. Her eyes were all that was left of her former humanity—yellow and bright like runny egg yolks. Brienne found a simple prayer writ in the woman’s hopeless eyes: _Mercy...please, mercy._      

“I know this face.” Jaime’s voice was nothing more than a mournful, boyish whisper. “This is Falyse Stokeworth.”

Before Brienne had a chance to ask who Falyse was, a small group of Lannister guards made their way towards the back of the hall with a civilian in tow. In their rough, punishing hands was the thin arms of Beth Bowers, a member of the Second Brotherhood and Brienne’s friend. A guard with a deep voice and stricken eyes approached Jaime as he twisted Beth’s arms in his wide hands.

“We found this woman in this room, along with a dozen other men; they told us that they’ve been searching for this place for weeks. There’ve been reports of strange activity in the black cells these past few days but we had nothing significant to report until this evening, Ser. We have reason to believe that they’ve been hiding in the Red Keep for a while now.”

At first it was hard for Brienne to recognize her; Beth’s face was swollen from a direct punch to the eye. With the horror of slow recognition, she was about to speak up in defense of her friend but the small woman threw her a sharp look of warning behind a curtain of black hair obscuring her face. If it was revealed that Brienne knew the Second Brotherhood was trying to find Qyburn’s undead army, the Faith would have reason to believe that Brienne was still a servant to the red god.  

Overwhelmed, Jaime still struggled with the very sight of Falyse’s unnatural form. Raising his eyes from the operating table, he watched guards sweep down the rows with their torches to look at the ghastly corpses who’d been cursed with eternal life. Under the glare of the fire, many of the bodies strapped down to the tables started to violently twitch and gag; heavy limbs tried to rise up; terrible groans started to mutter from the blackened scales of their lips. To their surprise, some of the corpses were not successfully reanimated; those bodies had gone to liquid rot while the rest were still preserved. Qyburn’s mad vision was still laboring under the dark arts moments before his arrest.

With bile in his throat, Jaime didn't want to know the answer but he was compelled to ask. “How many bodies did you count?”

“One hundred and twenty two still… _living,_ my lord; twenty eight have gone to rot.” Jaime looked over at Brienne with an ashen haunt to his face. “Would you have us to set them to flame, my lord?”

“ _No_.”  The Lord Commander and the guards were all taken aback by the king regent’s sharp reply. Collecting his bearings, Jaime looked over and saw Beth’s defiant scowl before he sighed. “Have them all imprisoned in the cell towers at the Sept of Baelor; if they’ve been searching all of the passageways in the Red Keep for this room then we can't imprison them here.”

“And what will you have us do with these... _creatures_ , my lord?”

Jaime wanted to reply but his mind turned blank; without forethought he turned to Brienne for answers. The way he saw it, if anyone had the ability to destroy these monsters, it was her. A long moment passed in silence; when Brienne finally noticed none of them were speaking she turned her eyes towards Jaime. She was astounded to see that all eyes were pointed at her. Holding back a nervous stutter, Brienne licked her lips with careful forethought before she finally replied in a soft voice.

“Lance the heart. Remove their heads. One by one, carry them out to the execution grounds at Traitors Walk; there we will set their bodies to the flame.” Brienne looked down at the dry, shrunken eyes of Falyse and shuddered; in her sickly yellow gaze Brienne watched the dead woman’s eyes grow still before they softened with a thankful knowing. _There is still a spark of life in her..._

The guards nodded their heads while Beth gave the slightest nod of thanks to Brienne before she was dragged away. The guards who threw up turned to Jaime and nervously waited for his command. Eventually, the king regent spoke to them with a shaky voice.  “Start with this one.” He reluctantly gestured to Falyse.  “Have mercy on them all... _and kill clean_.”

One face turned to the other with grim obedience while they slowly dragged out their blades. Watching a yellow tear trickle fall down the side of Falyse’s temple, Brienne closed her eyes and walked away. Just as she was making her way down the hall, a dull _thunk_ of blade against wood echoed throughout the chamber.

Onwards she walked without intention. In a numb daze, she felt no satisfaction in seeing the end of Qyburn’s mad legacy. Oddly enough she started to grow anxious, shuddery. Fearful even.

Stepping past the horrors of the torture chambers Brienne walked up the winding staircase towards the third floor; eventually she stumbled across a curious sight in a wide hallway.

Amber warm flames glowed and danced like a demon’s taunt on the vaulted ceiling of the dark room. Walking closer to it, Brienne saw a great coal fire lit inside the mouth of an iron dragon. The fireplace dominated the width of the chamber, joining dozens of hallways together from that eerie room. Stepping closer, Brienne felt the stone floor beneath her give way to slick tile that was covered in soot surrounding the fireplace; it was the Targaryen standard in mosaic tile: a three headed dragon made up of black and red glass.

Frozen like a spooked fawn, Brienne began to stare at the flames behind the dragon’s long iron teeth. Long moments passed. The flames...they seemed to cry out for her.  

Golden embers swirled above the fires until they started to gather at the base of the white hot flame. The heat blasted at her face, but she did not dare look away: there was a vision of horror that waited for her in that fire.

Stricken with terror, Brienne fell catatonic once the fire gave way to the sight of a wall made of ice as it tumble to the ground like an avalanche made of snow and death; she could see the dead rise up to slaughter the living; children were swiftly butchered and re-born again to kill their family, their friends; a tall, thin man with grey-blue skin and a crown made of ice rested on his head—he was walking directly towards Brienne with a long blade made of ice, eager to make her his ultimate kill.  

 _Thoros lied to me. I was not brought here just to kill the Mountain and destroy Qyburn’s army_.  Brienne shivered. _War soon follows and death marches for us all._

From the stairwell, Brienne could hear Jaime call out for her. Slowly she turned around and saw his face. Making her way towards him with wide eyes and an open mouth she tried to search for words to speak but failed. Instead, a fine mist of dust started to rain out overhead.  

A deep rumble took root in the ground. Stone blocks sprouted hairline cracks while loose rocks clattered and started to fall.

For one moment Brienne’s eyes locked onto Jaime’s. Small pebbles and rocks began to shower down on them both. A thick blanket of dust obscured their view of each. Just as the grey cloud swallowed Jaime up, Brienne felt a strong tug pull her towards the stairwell while the smile on the iron dragon seemed to grow wider in the fog of dust.

King’s Landing was having its first earthquake in over one hundred years.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most heartfelt gratitude for all of those who've stuck by me. Even after all of this time, I'm still grateful  
> just to have readers here. You guys have all taken a chance on me and made an investment with this story and  
> I dropped the ball completely. For all of you out there who continue to read, my heart goes out to you a thousand fold.
> 
> With love, I dedicate this chapter to those who've checked on me since I've last published a chapter here.  
> To CaptainTarthister, jtrevizo, Sssh, and StPauliGirl thank you. 
> 
> And a special thank you to HentaiHanyou for your honest and supportive feedback.


	19. Black Feathers of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark wings, dark words; fathers say farewell; a vow of trust is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who are still reading... I am honored.  
> Serious question: how did I get so lucky to have readers like you?  
> I treasure you all, everyone one. You guys have been incredible to me.  
> I have no idea what I did to deserve you. Thank you. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you. : )
> 
> -XX

 

The title for this chapter is inspired by a poem written by Pablo Neruda.  You can find it [here](https://allpoetry.com/Triangles) if you're interested.

 

 

It felt as if the shaking would never end. Convinced they were about to die, Brienne prepared for the worst when suddenly, the violent earthquake had shuddered its last.

A palpable silence filled the cold dungeons. Crouched in a stone alcove, streaked in a thick tangle of cobwebs, Brienne was tucked inside the warm hold of Jaime's arms; she knew it was him only by his scent. Trembling with nerves, she slowly lifted her head from his protective hold; Jaime’s lone hand covered her head from the falling debris while his right arm clung on to her waist. Dragging his finger through her snagged hair, he was desperate to see if his wife was injured. 

The fire from the iron dragon had guttered out during the quake, leaving behind only the sputtering light of torches that lined the staircase close by. Coppery flames danced and flickered in the black spiral of the staircase while thick smoke started to bloom from the iron dragon like a dense fog. The tumble and crash of heavy rocks was heard from a distance; each slam made a chilling echo that shivered its way down the murky tunnels. 

"You alright?"  

Jaime spoke in a thin voice; he sounded distant and tinny, like a hollow echo. Brienne could barely hear him over the dull roar of blood pounding in her ears. She couldn’t speak, much less move; she was afraid that she would somehow cause the world to start shaking again. Eventually, she nodded her head like a nervous child; Jaime's eyes started to adjust to the dim light while he searched her face for any signs of trauma. Wiping away a thick veil of dust from her brow, he finally saw astonishing blue eyes spark back to life. Relieved, he kissed her temple, he kissed her mouth; he kissed her cheeks and her crooked nose with breathless lips. 

Brienne struggle to breathe. Dry coughs followed a dusty gag in her throat; she was starting  to inhale the ash and smoke that was spreading from the dark furnace. Smoothing a loving hand over her back, Jaime was amazed to find that there were no obvious signs of damage made to the black cells. Down below, he could hear his men cry out for help while other men clambered over rubble to bring them aide. Anxious thoughts turned to his children, Tommen and Myrcella. With a cold splash of fear, Jaime suddenly remembered the fifth level tucked beneath the black cells. 

“I need to go check on our men in Qyburn's lab. Brienne?” Jaime paused; he used his sleeve to wipe away the dust over her mouth. 

“The king— _Myrcella…_ ” Dry coughs seized Brienne’s throat. As she gasped for breath, Brienne’s eyes adjusted to see ghostly ash dusting over Jaime's hair and face. “I’ll go look for the children, Jaime.  _Go_ —see to your men.”  Reluctant in agreement, he gave her a sweet kiss on the forehead while she struggled to take in her next breaths. Nervous for her safety, he watched her climb up the winding stairs by the light of the mounted torches. 

Jaime started to gag for air once he made his way down the winding stairs; the light was so faint, he had no choice but cling to the stairwell as he staggered back down to Qyburn's lab. Once he reached the torture chambers, he was relieved to see that most of his men were milling about and safe, with the exception of a few bloody heads and some fallen rubble. Close to the doorway Jaime found one of his commanding officers; he was overseeing the evacuation of the Lannister guards. 

“ _My lord!_ Lady Brienne, is she—”. Jaime nodded his head with assurances as he sputtered for his next breath. “Most of our men are fine here, my lord—quite a few scrapes and bruises, all told.  If you’d rather be with His Grace, I’ll see to our men and we’ll destroy Qyburn's… _experiments_ soon after.” 

Fresh, heaving breaths were pulled into his lungs at last. Running his fingers over his head, Jaime’s dusty grey hair slowly returned to its Lannister gold. “Good man; thank you.” The officer looked away while Jaime turned his back on the sickly sweet rot of the torture chambers. Certain that he was not being watched, he carefully unhinged one of the torches from the staircase and quietly made his way down to the dreaded fifth floor. 

 

 

\---------------------

 

Fear started to claw at Jaime's throat. His pulse started to race; he even thought he’d felt his heart start to knock and slam against his ribs at one point.

He hadn't been down to the fifth floor since the night he’d slain the Mad King; it was on that night he learned of the secret floor. Under threat of death, Jaime pointed his blade at one of the pyromancers and demanded him to show where all of the wildfire was stored. Shortly thereafter, he slit the man’s throat only to be certain that he would be the only man left knowing where the wildfire was kept. 

A colossal stone wall that had no seam greeted Jaime at the bottom of the long staircase. Nervous for his wife and children, he darted his head over his shoulder while the icy fangs of paranoia started to sink into his warm heart. 

Annoyed by his lone hand, he was forced to lay the sputtering torch down to the ground while he searched for the secret lock. Embedded into the wall, tucked in the shadows behind a massive pillar, Jaime found what he was looking for: it was a unique stone block; sand colored, with thin black veins running through it. Assuring himself that he was still alone, he slowly removed the block from the wall. Inside he found the dull shine of a large brass lever that was buried deep in a funnel of cobwebs. On the head of the lever was an ancient seal; it was the emblem to the secret order of the Alchemist’s Guild. Anxious for what he was about to do, Jaime closed his eyes and held his breath before pulling the brass lever down. 

With the ‘ _crack_ ’ of locks and the ‘ _click_ ’ of gears slowly winding into place, a mournful bellow along with a peal of squeaky hinges filled the room. Nervous, Jaime watched the massive stone wall give way to reveal a secret passage hidden in the corner. It was a heavy stone door disguised by a false veneer of bricks; the door was wide enough for two horses to ride abreast. Once the groans and clicks had settled, Jaime approached the entry to the fifth floor with a sickly boil in his stomach. 

Vivid memories plagued his mind; it was the memories of that fateful night he shared with the Mad King. Aerys had been a sickly man, pale of face with matted white hair; he was filthy, painfully thin and he had shaky hands. Jaime could still remember how the Mad King would pace in front of his throne like a caged beast while both of his arms dripped red with blood from his freshly picked scabs. Instantly, Jaime could hear his king bellow out for his order to set blaze to the capital.

‘ _...'ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat_.”

Holding onto the torch in a death grip, Jaime walked through the shadowy passageway breathless. The fifth floor of the dungeons was no chamber; it was the vaulted foundation beneath the throne room. As far as the torch could cast its light, he could see hundreds of dark pits buried in the ground, drinking in the small light of Jaime’s lone torch. 

Cautious, he stepped closer to the nearest cavity and looked down.  Each one of the pits were lined in stone; the holes were buried ten feet deep and were no wider in circumference than the laundry vats of the Red Keep. On a deep bed made of sand, each one of the trenches were partially filled with stagnant black water. Inside, propped up in a bed of wet sand was a small cache of wildfire.  Each pit contain four clay pots, no bigger in size than a wine barrel. Sealed in thick wax, Jaime cautiously lowered his torch over the pit to take a closer look of the clay vessels.  

Not a single pot was disturbed by the quake.  

Stepping away from the pit in breathless relief, Jaime realized that sweat was pouring down his back while beads of perspiration started to fall from his forehead. With slow steps backwards, he gradually turned around to carefully examine another one of the stone cavities, anxious to see if any of the clay wildfire pots were either cracked or broken. After a while, with adrenaline coursing through his veins, Jaime slowly walked back towards the concealed door of the chambers after he checked every pit for broken pots of wildfire. With a shallow breath, he felt a shiver begin to rattle marrow deep in his bones.  

It was while he pushed the brass lever back down to close the hidden door did he realize how hard his hand had shook: It had started to tremble like an old man who was sickly and pale of face.

 

  

\---------------------

 

 

Brienne tried her hardest to stay composed, but memories of the earthquake, Falyse Stokeworth and the vision she saw in the flames overwhelmed her. As she stepped outside of the black cells, she could see daylight start to rise over the great towers of the Red Keep. The sky was still grey, but the clouds were lined in silver and laced with the scent of a coming snowfall.

Anxious, Brienne shook the dust from her hair, trying her hardest to remain calm while she fought her way against the pandemonium of the royal courtyard. Women with bloody lashes on their skin hobbled out of the kitchens and stables; young men and fathers, battered and bloodied, raced back into the Keep to retrieve those who were trapped inside. One woman wept as she held onto an unconscious child in her arms; an elderly man tripped over a pile of rubble while scores of cooks, stable boys, squires and ladies filed out of the castle with ashen faces and wide, haunted eyes. At first blush, there had seemed to be no catastrophic losses done by the quake; mostly of the damages were superficial in nature, though it was too soon to know how many were wounded or dead just yet. 

From the corner of her eye, Brienne saw a flash of crimson armor sneak up behind her.  “Lady Brienne.”  Flinching in surprise, she turned around to see a Lannister guard place a hand on her arm.  “Are you injured?”  Numb from shock, Brienne gradually shook her head ‘no’.  Spooked by the sound of a woman screaming from a distance, Brienne snapped back to life while the young guard looked up at her in anticipation.  

“Where is His Grace; the Princess Myrcella?”  The guard’s eyes narrowed on the Lady of Casterly with militant obedience. “This way; His Grace and the Princess should be with Maester Prewitt for their morning lessons.”  

Past the toil and stress found in the great halls, over the rubble strewn floors of the throne room, Brienne followed the guard past the Iron Throne and into the King’s private antechamber. Behind the formidable presence of all seven men of the Kingsguard, Brienne found the bloodless faces of the little King and the Princess Myrcella at last. 

Once Tommen’s weepy eyes looked up at his aunt, his face started to light up with recognition. Brienne was stunned to realize that little Tommen was running towards her.  Bent over, down on one knee, a loving instinct took reign as she welcomed the hold of her little lion in her arms. Wrapping him tight into a mother’s hold, blue eyes slipped shut once Tommen started to cling himself around her neck. _“I knew you’d come back.”_

Moved by his sweetness, Brienne sank her face deep into Tommen’s neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek before she whispered back.  “But of course, your Grace.”  Lifting her eyes from Tommen’s splotchy face, Brienne found Myrcella staring down at both of them with deflated eyes and a blank expression on her face.  

“Where’s Uncle Jaime?”  Brienne tactfully removed herself from the King’s arms. “He’s safe, my lady.  You’re uncle will be with us shortly.” Myrcella’s chest began to rise and fall in shallow breaths; Brienne was terrified that the princess would start to hyperventilate soon after. “I swear it to you; _by the Old Gods and New_.”  

Unconvinced of her promise, the princess tried to force herself to remain calm while she inched closer to her brother. Brienne watched Myrcella try her best to comfort Tommen—running her long fingers through his hair with a distant look in her green eyes—it was obvious to Brienne that it was really Myrcella who needed comfort instead. She desperately wanted to console the girl, but she didn’t think she would welcome her aunt’s unexpected touch. 

As Tommen’s arms remained snug around his aunt's waist, Brienne eventually found the courage to rest a comforting hand over Myrcella’s shoulder. Long moments passed while men of the King’s Guard kept a tight perimeter around the king, the princess and Brienne; after speaking to the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard for some time, Brienne saw the white armor of the guards begin to part once Jaime returned from the his visit to the dungeons.

“Uncle Jaime!” Tommen and Myrcella peeled away from Brienne’s arms seconds after Jaime looked down at his family in bittersweet relief. It felt good to see his children finally take to Brienne, he just wished it didn't have to come at such a cost. Exhausted, he dropped to his knees while his unknowing children gathered around in quiet elation. Keeping his children tucked close to his side, he looked up at his wife with the haunt of the Mad King burning in his eyes. 

Brienne felt a cold chill running down her spine. 

“Does Maegor’s Holdfast still stand?” Brienne shrugged in doubt before she answered. “The Grand Maester is examining the load bearing stones in the Red Keep. If the structure is sound, we can return His Grace and the princess to their royal apartments tonight.” Jaime nodded into his daughter's fragrant hair while Tommen wrapped his arms tight around his uncle. Over the king’s little shoulder, Jaime looked out into the throne room and felt his skin grow clammy from memory. Just moments ago, he was hundreds of feet below the ground, surveying pots of wildfire that were stockpiled beneath them. Jaime suddenly made eye contact with the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Balon Swann.

“We need to get out of here— _now_.  I want the princess and His Grace settled in a new location, away from the Red Keep.”  Memories of wildfire stashed beneath taverns and stables below King’s Landing started to torment Jaime. _Is there no place that's safe for my children?_ Jaime started to blanch from the horror of his own thoughts. _No matter what I do, the King will never be safe..._

The Lord Commander’s face started to pucker in thought. “We can escort His Grace and the Princess to the armory behind the royal amphitheater. It’s partially buried beneath the ground; it’d make it a more secure location than here.” Without word, Jaime rose to his feet. Handing off Tommen to Brienne, Jaime kept his daughter close to his side while the Kingsguard surrounded the family and led them out with a vigilant silence. 

By then, the throne room had been evacuated. Most of the stained glass windows were shattered, turning them into splintered frames of rainbow glass that showcased the void of a winter sky. Plaster and stone chunks obscured the marble floors; heavy iron chandeliers that once lit up the throne room were now dented and twisted into mangled piles on the ground. Shuffling past the carnage of a dashed nobility, both husband and wife were relieved to step out of the desolate castle. 

The Kingsguard made quick work of breaking through the massive crowds lining outside of the Keep. Brienne noticed that Myrcella looked over her shoulder a few times to see if her aunt and Tommen was close behind. In Brienne’s arms, Tommen’s little paws held on to her broad shoulders while Jaime was sure to keep his daughter close to his side. 

From a wide clearing in a dormant rose garden, Jaime could hear the rise of panicked voices start to swell up around them. From a distance, he saw members of court turn their gazes skywards, pointing up towards something that made all of their faces turn slack. One member of the Kingsguard came to an abrupt halt in the garden pathway; soon another and then another fell still in their tracks. All of them paused in the snowy rose gardens while they looked up to see what was happening. Myrcella watched in horror as she saw two members of the Kingsguard started to pull out their swords in readiness. 

“Uncle…” Myrcella’s words began to die in her mouth once she saw what everyone else was seeing. From a distance, a great cloud made of black seemed to swell from the tree line like a rising storm cloud. Kingsguard members huddled closer to the royal family with tense shoulders and ready hands as they clenched onto the pommels of their swords.  

A small sound managed to slip past Brienne’s lips.  “ _Jaime_ —”. No words were needed; all watched in terror as the black mass started to soar clear from the woods.  Amazed by the soaring mass, everyone was slow to realize that the dark cloud was really a massive swarm of ravens that started to flood the sky. For brief moments, flashes of wings and feathers could be distinguished from one another. The great swarm rolled and morphed as one, assuming new shapes and new directions—rolling and twisting, ever changing in its fluid swell. Stodgy members of court and young servants all stood together with profound silence while they watched the tempest of ravens start to rise over their heads.

For one brief, terrifying moment, the black veil of ravens managed to blot out the sun.  One woman shrieked out in bloody terror.  A young boy screamed out as well; and then another, and another. One by one, ravens started to fall from the sky and began to attack those who were standing still.  

A Kingsguard member shouted at Jaime with panic stricken eyes, “ _We have to move. Now!_ ” Following his orders, Jaime pulled his daughter closer to his side, tucking her golden head close to his chest. He turned around to see his wife tucking the king’s head deep into the thick folds of her cloak.  

Racing from the fluttering terror above, the feathery sound of wings flapping, their shrill calls and the panicked screams of people filled the air. No birds attacked them but Jaime caught glimpses of many of those who were. Dozen’s of faces were scratched deep with sharp talons; eyeballs were plucked clean from their sockets; ravens screamed out with fear as they tangled themselves deeper into the folds of billowy court dresses and flowing hair; men’s arms and scalps were slashed bloody while they tried to protect themselves and others from the avian assault.

At last, the royal family found sanctuary in the arsenal behind the royal amphitheater. Everyone was left winded from running; Jaime felt Myrcella slip loose from his side as she tried hard to catch her breath. It was then Jaime realized that both he and Brienne had now returned to the very place they first met after she had defeated Ser Robert Strong in combat.

_Has it only been a few months?  It feels like a year ago..._

The Lord Commander untangled the little king from Brienne’s arms and see if hewas injured. Panting, shaky, still reeling from the memories of wildfire, the earthquake and Qyburn’s undead army, Jaime caught eyes with his wife across the room.  Once more, he took a doubtful step towards Brienne and reached out for her with a near trembling reluctance. 

Pale fingers met the other’s across a small divide; one hand started to tangle with the other. Burned out by exhaustion, relieved to have each other safe, Jaime roughly pulled his wife into his arms and held on tight. Released from her fears, Brienne allowed for her unshed tears to gather and fall, each one slipping down her husband’s neck while he kissed her temple in a silent prayer of gratitude.  

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

Daylight hours slowly melted into night. Brienne nervously watched the servants begin to light candles and braziers in the dark armory. Frightened by the visions she saw in the flames earlier that day, she kept her head bowed and tried not to look at the fire; she didn’t want to tempt fate by looking in the flames again anytime soon. 

Tommen managed to fall asleep with his head slumped on his father’s lap. Just a few feet away, Brienne stroked Myrcella's hair rhythmically as she slept fitfully beside her. Servants to the royal family made a cozy pallet in the corner of the armory made up of fur blankets and velvet pillows; men of the Kingsguard cleared out the room free of any swords or spears that would pose a falling hazard for the king. Deep aftershocks from the quake still plagued the capital; every time one would start, Tommen would start to whimper while Myrcella tucked herself even closer to her aunt’s side.  

As the grand maester toured the Red Keep to be certain the holdfast was safe for the king and the princess, Jaime called for a minstrel to play music for the children; it was a desperate attempt to make something feel normal in an abnormal world. Long hours passed, and with it, the singer’s voice did as well. Once the minstrel started to grow hoarse, he plucked the strings to his harp with a slow, pretty melody that had no words.  

Torches were lit close to midnight; Brienne was optimistic that all would return to normal soon; she hadn’t felt an aftershock felt in several hours. From the rear of the armory she watched her father enter the room by the amber glow of candlelight.  

Minutes after Selwyn was reunited with Brienne, he volunteered to assess the damages made to King’s Landing. He had returned all throughout the day, giving detailed reports on the condition of the walls or the city gates. In all, no serious damage was done, but many of the neglected hovels in Flea Bottom were razed to the ground. By rough estimates, Selwyn last heard a count of a hundred or so among the dead, but that count was sure to rise come daylight.  

As her father made his way closer to her family, Brienne felt hopeful; she thought he would announce that it was finally safe to return to the Red Keep. Hopes of such news were quickly dashed once he stepped closer to her; there was something in his eyes that spoke of real fear once she noticed an opened scroll clenched in his fingers. The broken seal was pitch black with a raven on it; it was the seal of the Night's Watch.

“The Grand Maester received a raven moments ago. He wanted me to deliver this to you and to Jaime.” Brienne was scared; his face looked stunned and his voice was slow, dull with shock. To her, it seemed as if her father had aged ten years in only a few hours. With curled fingers, she reached for the opened scroll with prickles of ice running down her veins. Jaime watched them both while Tommen’s soft little snores filled their corner of the armory; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise on end as he watched Brienne’s face melt with a slow horror while she read.

_“The Wall has fallen. White Walkers have now taken the North; in their wake, the dead rise from their graves._

_Unearth your dead and destroy their remains.  Bar your castles, protect the innocent._

_Steel is useless: defend yourselves with dragonglass or fire. Only Valyrian steel can end the White Walkers. Hurry. Winter has come.”_

 

Doubtful blue eyes blinked slow once she handed the note off to Jaime. As she watched her husband’s face melt from curiosity to a numb shock, she swept her fingers over Myrcella’s ruined ear and closed her eyes. 

A disturbing thought crossed Brienne’s mind just then: for one moment, she realized that she was now starting to envy the dead.  

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

The Master of Coin felt his blood start to boil over with rage. 

“We need to ride north and fight the White Walkers— _now_!  Are we craven or have we all suddenly gone mad?” 

Jaime narrowed his eyes on the Master of Coin with thinly veiled contempt. Seated at the head of the small council table, the Hand of the King studied the angry lord before he let out a slow, worn out breath. Determined not to have someone like him undermine his authority, Jaime felt himself struggle; he was trying to prevent his anger from showing. Instead of blasting the lord’s chin with his golden hand—like he wanted—he instead wore a false mask of stoicism while boring his green eyes into the angry fool. Infuriated by the Hand’s bored demeanor, the blustering Master of Coin pounded the table with a hammy fist while he sputtered in disgust. 

“Our army should have marched days ago, and instead, we sit here worthless, like blushing maids fretting over their needlepoint lessons.” A slow, offended snarl began to twist on Jaime’s lips. All eyes of the small council table started to grow wide in shock before they shifted towards Lady Brienne; she was proudly seated next to her husband, the Hand of the King. “ _Er...mphh._ Meaning you no offense, my lady.”

Brienne wasn’t impressed by the Master of Coin’s hollow apology. With a firm jaw and cool eyes, she stared at him from across the table before she checked him with a clipped, matter-of-fact voice. “Had we sent our armies north, _when you wanted,_ our men would have been stranded in a snowstorm that is still terrorizing the Riverlands—most of our men and horses would have frozen to death by now.”

One by one, reports started to trickle in to King’s Landing, messages that were hastily scribbled over smudges of dried blood. It was news of an earthquake in the North, far greater than the one that rocked King’s Landing. The violent quake managed to tear down the ancient Wall made of ice and spells and reduced it to an avalanche of tumbling ice and powdery snow. 

With the Wall obliterated, the South was left open and vulnerable. Reports came in from White Harbor, Last Hearth and Mole’s Town, all confirming the same report first sent by the Night’s Watch: White Walkers, at least three hundred strong, marched south of the Wall, and with them, a growing army of the undead followed in their wake.

While preparations were made in the capital to have forty-thousand men ride north to fight the White Walkers, a cataclysmic snowstorm began to pummel the Riverlands. Frustrated, Jaime made the uneasy decision that they would wait out the storm by only a few days before giving the command to march. Shortly thereafter, the first of only a handful of northern boats sailed into the ports of King’s Landing. 

The winter storms on the Shivering Sea proved to be a lethal journey; of the seventeen boats that’d departed from White Harbor, only six managed to reach the ports of King’s Landing. Survivors from the North streamed out of their ships with dead eyes and a crippling fear of the dark. Soon after, dreadful rumors were heard among the exiles, rumors that were proven to be true when news of another terror reached King’s Landing:    

It was news of dragons.

Northern exiles all recounted the same story: several days after the Wall fell, a fleet of ships—three hundred strong—took siege of the North at Eastwatch by the Sea. Three dragon’s, one as black as death, filled the winter sky with fire and blood. Northern men and women had no choice but to lay down their arms and pledge oaths of fealty to the Targaryen queen. While others bent the knee out of fear or desperation, many smuggled themselves onto boats and sought refuge in the South.  

In the end, northerners were forced to choose between a death made of ice or a death made by fire; instead, they chose to seek out a new life in the South, welcoming whatever hell that would follow in its wake.

Lacking social grace, the Master of Coin loomed over the small council table with a violet face, blistered with anger. After a long spell of unimpressed silence, the Hand of the King quietly encouraged the pompous lord to take his seat, gesturing to a vacant chair with his golden hand. 

“You’re right, my lord. We should have marched days ago—blinding snowstorms be damned. But I’m curious; of the forty-thousand men who are now prepared to march north, how many should remain to defend the population of King’s Landing?” Jaime’s question gave pause to the Master of Coin. “Do you really think our people will welcome us home after we’ve abandoned them—forcing them to defend themselves against three dragons who’ve burnt their city to ashes?”

The small council fell silent. Gruff in forethought, the Master of Ships raised his downcast eyes and turned them on to the Master of Coin.

“This— _Targaryen girl_ —leads a host that can defeat the White Walkers. What good do we gain in marching now? If we don’t freeze to death before we make it out of the Riverlands, we’ll all greet Daenerys Targaryen days too late with our cocks in our hands before she damns us as usurpers and has us all executed.”

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Balon Swann, interjected with a balking scowl on his face. “Even if the Targaryen host can defeat the White Walkers, we still have to defend King's Landing once Daenerys flies south to claim the iron throne. After the war, she’ll command her troops to march south for King’s Landing, and then what? Those men—reports of 50,000 Dothraki and Unsullied—will break down our gates and sack the city. And once the Dothraki set foot past our walls every man, woman and child will be beaten, slaughtered and raped. _No!_ We have the means and the resources to defend the capital against these foreign invaders. We must stay here and protect our people at all costs.” 

The Maester Prewitt studied Brienne’s solemn face before he carefully spoke. “What say you, Lady Brienne?”

Brienne’s face started to flicker to life; against her better judgement, she permitted her eyes to lock onto the roaring fireplace behind the Grand Master’s head. She felt exhausted, slow to move and nauseated; Brienne wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and fall back to sleep. For days she had the strange feeling that something felt _‘off’_ in her: she was slow to react, often felt dizzy and she had a sudden aversion to most of her favorite foods. Writing off her strange behavior as nothing more than anxiety, the Lady of Casterly Rock felt all eyes turn on her. Slow to speak, Brienne kept her eyes straight on the Grand Maester before she spoke up with a soft finality. 

“We fight where we are strongest.” 

The Master of Coin grumbled to himself while the Master of Ships began to swallow hard from nerves. Sweeping her eyes over the grim assembly of men, Brienne continued in a firm voice. “Lannister armies have never fought in the north before, and suddenly, we wish them to ride towards the Wall against these winter storms? Our men don’t have the training, the resources or the knowledge to survive that terrain. If we head north now, we will all die, likely within days. Northern houses have both the training and the resources to fight the White Walkers better than us. Daenerys has three dragons and she commands the head of an army—50,000 strong—and it’s composed mostly of Dothraki and Unsullied men.” 

The Lord Commander cleared his throat before he spoke. “Dothraki and Unsullied are the famed warriors of Essos; how well can these men fight on foreign land during one of the most brutal winters we've ever known?"

The Master of Ships shrugged his shoulders with a defeated look on his face. “Let the Targaryen girl and her Dothraki screamers take the north. She’ll be doing us all a favor; her dragons can defeat the White Walkers and save the northers too.”

Ser Balon Swann chuffed his cynicism at the Master of Ships. “Have you ever fought in a battle _on land_ , my lord? War isn't a civil procession of men marching north to south like an impenetrable line made of ice. The fighting may be at its thickest in the north but there are still sightings of Walkers and wights south of The Neck. And with them, the dead rise also.”

Silence wrapped around the small council table like a snake coiling itself around the ribs of its prey. Slowly, with his jaw half buried in his hand, Jaime made his final decision with distant eyes and a thoughtful voice. “We stay.” Everyone looked at the Hand of the King with blank faces. “Here we have food, shelter and a tactical advantage. We also have the means to defend ourselves should either the White Walkers or the Targaryen host come marching to our gates.”

The Master of Coin’s sour voice wanted to curdle Jaime’s newborn confidence. “The Targaryen girl has three dragons, _my lord._   What in the seven bloody hells do we have?”

Brienne turned her head to face Jaime. His head was bowed and his face had the unease of a conflicted child. Making brief eye contact with his wife, he watched her give him a sad, lopsided smile, prompting him to let go of a dark secret he had held onto for far too long. 

“We have wildfire, my lords.  Caches of wildfire.”

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

All of the fastest ships in King's Landing sailed for east for Tarth and Dragonstone and returned in record time. Each boat returned with large crates, all filled near to bursting with slick shards of smoky dragon glass.  Most of the crew members on board unloaded the heavy crates with thick bandages on their hands, crusted in blood; small pieces of the razor thin obsidian frequently slipped out of the slats of the crates, causing many to suffer horrific cuts as a result.

Two weeks had passed since the Wall had fell. All throughout King's Landing, not a single person knew the luxury of rest. Thousands of men and boys felled great trees from the Kingswood and started to build day and night and with little sleep. Prisoners were released from the jails scattered throughout the capital to perform dangerous tasks; they were chosen to help the Maesters move pots of wildfire to freshly constructed areas close to the city walls. 

All hours of the day, able bodied men and women took turns unearthing the dead in the cemeteries of King’s Landing. The smell of death permeated the city; massive pyres filled with freshly dug up corpses and dusty bones was set to flame, releasing black towers of greasy smoke into the air. The elderly made arrow heads, knives and spear points out of dragon glass while small children prepared bandage and needle kits throughout the city to aid wounded fighters for the coming war.  

Hammer and saw, axe and shovel; steel pounded against steel in an exhausting discord of a bone-rattling fear. Sweethearts married impulsively without ceremony at all hours of the day inside the Great Sept of Baelor; many people took their own lives in the fear of the White Walkers. Under the watch of the Gold Cloaks, the price of flour was kept frozen under threat of death to prevent bread riots and price gouging. Many of those who never had faith sought out the gods in their darkest hour. At the same time, life long members of the faith started to question if the gods existed, much less even care at all.

One by one, reports came in by raven; survivors—too few and far between—sent word to King’s Landing. Last Hearth, Karhold, the Dreadfort, Torrhen’s Square, Deepwood Motte, White Harbor, even Moat Cailin all fell to the onslaught of the White Walkers, extinguishing the names of proud houses forever. It was no surprise to either Brienne nor Jaime that there was no word from Winterfell yet; if anyone could survive the wrath of wights and White Walkers, them surely it would be the Starks.

Each report that came in substantiated the news first shared by the Night’s Watch: dragonglass and Valyrian steel were the only protection that could sustain them against the terror. 

Not all hope was lost, however. News came in that Walder Frey was finally dead; soon after, soldiers of the Twins were seen joining forces with the Vale to defend The Neck against the White Walkers. Brienne vaguely wondered how Sansa was able to make peace and join forces with a family that slaughter her own. _Perhaps the Frey’s had to aligned themselves to Sansa out of desperation…_ Brienne paused. _Perhaps she agreed to ally with them for the price of Walder Frey’s head_.

Though Brienne was exhausted and her face looked pale and gaunt, neither she nor Jaime gave any thought as to her gradual change in her appearance. Everyone was exhausted, working non-stop to prepare for the invasion of King’s Landing. Jaime looked weary and thin as well; his beard was unkempt while his hair turned shaggy, but Brienne didn’t mind; she was endeared to her husband's scruffy look anyway.

Long lists were constantly being made by the small council; all of the lists were checked, double check and tripled checked even. Battle strategies were scrutinized while contingency plans were debated. And yet, with all the preparations that were being made, there was one final task that had to be done. It was a bleak, solemn chore that had to be done to ensure the preservation of the little king and the princess should the worst happen. 

After a short, awkward dinner filled with mournful faces and pregnant silences, Jaime excused his children to bed while Brienne implored her father to stay at the dinner table to talk. 

“Father. There is something that both Jaime and I need to discuss with you.” Once the doors to the private halls were closed behind the last vacating servant, Jaime turned to Lord Selwyn with a sad smile creeping over his face. Brienne proceeded. “Jaime and I have discussed this at length for some time now and we've given our decision a lot of thought.” 

Selwyn’s eyes perked up with intrigue. His daughter spoke again, this time, she reached for Jaime’s hand and went on with a shaky exhale. “We’ve decided that we would like for you to become the protector of the realm should I fall.” Selwyn’s face turned slack once he absorbed his daughter’s grim request. 

Feeling oddly emotional, Brienne’s eyes started to fill with tears while her throat grew tight with sadness. Jaime softly interjected while his wife struggled to compose herself. “The King trusts you; he will look to you for guidance and council. In time—I dare say—Myrcella will even open up to you as well, but they will need you should the worst happen to both of us.”

Selwyn gaped at Jaime with a slow hurt in his eyes. “I don’t understand…” 

Jaime leaned forward in his chair while Brienne still dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “The small council has been discussing this for days: should I die in battle, your daughter will automatically assume the role as Hand of the King.” Brienne valiantly cleared her throat before she spoke again, this time with a thick, teary voice. “And if my husband is forced to consider such things, then it’s only prudent that I make plans as well. Tommen and Myrcella have lost so much, but we both know that no matter what happens, should I die… No matter what happens, they will have you; they would find the strength to carry on and rule under your wisdom and counsel.”

The Lord of Tarth could hardly blink his eyes; he never thought he would ever hear such words coming from his daughter. Fidgeting with the stem of his wine glass, Selwyn’s eyebrows started to rise on his face along with a false smile and forlorn eyes. After a long moment, in halfhearted agreement, Selwyn finally answered with a ring of heartbreak to his husky voice.

“I could not dream of a higher honor. With a heavy heart, I woefully accept.” With their hands clasped together, Jaime squeezed Brienne's hand tight with a swell of unexpected relief. In spite of his grief, Selwyn managed to smile in spite of everything. “But please, if you’d be so kind, do not honor me so soon. Although, to be frank, I would prefer it if you both would not honor me at all.”

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

In the cold halls of Maegor's Holdfast, servants of the Keep were bustling about and hauling luggage outside; they were making final preparations to have King Tommen and the princess ready for their midnight voyage to the Sapphire Isles. 

“You can't make me leave! I’m not going; I want to stay here with you and aunt Brienne!”

Jaime wanted to bury his face in his hand and whisper a curse beneath his breath; instead, he let out an exasperated sigh. “ _Again:_ it’s not safe here Mycella. Please, listen—”

“No! I'm tired of being shuttled around like some unwitting piece on a Cyvasse board. I was sent to Dorne because it wasn't safe in King’s Landing. I was sent back to King’s Landing because of the bloody flux. And now, you want to ship me off to Tarth like cattle because—”

Jaime could feel a slow rage start build up inside of him; against his better judgement he could hear his own voice start to build into a roar made of fire and venom. “ _Because there is a war coming!_ ” Everyone in the hall suddenly fell quiet. “What happened with Stannis on the Blackwater was _nothing._ The plague in Dorne is _nothing_ compared to all that's about to unfold.” 

Awkward silence filled the drafty hall of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Myrcella was left spooked by her uncle's sudden outrage. Heartbroken by his own anger, Jaime’s voice started to falter into a broken plea.  “Don't you get it? The War of the Five Kings, the battles, the plague; those were all just melees and tourneys compared to what's about to unfold.” Petrified by fear, Myrcella wrapped thin arms over her chest while a stony expression started to freeze over her pretty face. Bundled tight in the long fur coat she first arrived in, the princess turned around to watch Lannister servants carry out her luggage through the dark panes of a snow lined window.  

Desperate to have his warning sink in, Jaime felt his rage begin to smolder once more; this time he felt a new, softer anger begin to rise in his heart; anger for the loss of his daughter’s sweet innocence. “You have to think of Tommen, Myrcella.”  A rebellious tear slipped down her flushed cheek. “If anything were to happen to us… Tommen would be all alone. He needs you now more than ever.” 

Myrcella refused to listen. Across the hall, Jaime watched Selwyn of Tarth take a knee to button up the little king's bear cloak. 

Hovering over her father and Tommen, Brienne looked down on them with a look of nostalgia on her face; suddenly, she felt Jaime’s eyes linger over her. Seeing the look of defeat form on his face, the Lady of Tarth deftly made her way towards the Princess Myrcella. Exchanging quick glances with Jaime, she gave him a doubtful look in passing her eyes along with a small wince on her lips. In the reflection of the black window, the princess watched her aunt start to tower over her head from behind. 

“Are you here to tell me that I’m being selfish?”

“No.” Brienne shrugged while she nervously shifted her weight on her feet. “I just wanted to say that I admire you. You’ve had to be strong for a long time now—and I know that’s exhausting. Most young ladies don’t have the grace that you possess.” 

The princess was taken aback; confused, she turned her slightly head to listen further. Feeling bone-tired, Brienne stood next to the princess before leaning her side on the stone wall with a deep exhale. 

“And to say that you're right; it isn't fair. All you want right now is to be with your family and to have a home. For all of the losses you’ve suffered, it’s only natural.” Myrcella’s shoulders began to soften. “I know how bad it feels; no matter what you do, you always feel out of place—like an outsider. You start to worry that you'll never belong. It's a scary feeling.” 

Neither one spoke for quite a while. After a few moments, a pretty frown started to tug down on the princess’ face. Intrigued by her aunt’s strange praise, Myrcella’s mind started to travel on its own journey to an island she’d never seen before. “Will I like Tarth?”

In spite of her exhaustion, Brienne smiled down at the young lady and spoke in a near whisper. “I don't know. It doesn't have the bustle of the capital, but its peaceful. And beautiful.” Myrcella’s curiosity started to peak; she felt intrigued by her aunt’s honest reply. “I told my father to give you my room; it has a large window that faces the Narrow Sea. When it storms, you can hear the waves crash and the sea lions bark in the caves tucked beneath Evenfall. It's soothing—the sound always lulled me to sleep as a child.”

A quiet victory started to unfold for Brienne; by some strange miracle, the princess turned to face her aunt without any hostility or suspicion. It was nothing momentous, but for Brienne it meant the world to her. “Do you remember your mother?”

Looking down at her calloused fingers, Brienne thought on Myrcella’s question for a moment before she answered with a slight frown of her own. “No. All that I know is that she loved to sing. And she loved geraniums.” A crooked grin started to tug at Brienne’s pitted cheek. “She kept geraniums in the glass gardens. She always wanted them around her, even in the winter time.” Myrcella’s eyes started to drift down to the floor with a wistful smile; the faint sparks of her imagination started to foster the hope of a new life for her.

From the corner of her eye, Brienne saw Jaime watch them from a distance with a nervous look folding on his brow. Brienne hesitated before she spoke again. “I know that Tarth is not your home, princess, but for as long you shall live, no matter what happens—no matter where you go—Evenfall will always be a place to welcome you home.” 

Across the room, Brienne saw a cautious look of hope start to rise on Jaime’s face. When she looked back down, she saw that the princess was staring up at her. 

“ _Myrcella._ If it pleases you, aunt, you may call me Myrcella.”

Brienne nodded her head and let out a small sigh of relief; she was happy to oblige her stepdaughter’s request.

“Myrcella.” 

 

 

\----------------------

 

 

In the black whispers of night, on a snowy dock at the royal harbor, Jaime watched the Grand Maester escort his son and daughter up the salted gangplank after they exchanged their tearful goodbyes.  

Jaime made vows in his children’s ears, swearing to them that he would see them again soon. Though his children nodded their golden heads and listened with obedience, neither one looked up at him with any optimism, they just seemed to look right through him instead. They both looked up at him with dull eyes—resigned and assuming.

Choking back on the heartbreak that only a father can know, Jaime reluctantly turned his head from the ship and watched Brienne say her goodbyes to her father. With tear streaked cheeks, both father and daughter smiled with flushed faces and soft laughter. Wry comments were exchanged before Selwyn enveloped his daughter once more into a final bear hug. Once again, a small stab of jealousy started to slip through Jaime’s heart.

Wiping the tears from his cheeks, Selwyn approached his new son with an ironic smile and a lazy shrug. Briefly, his eyes turned to his daughter before he gave Jaime a watery grin. “When you become a father, Ser Jaime, you’ll understand the heartache.”

Jaime nearly flinched; the lord’s innocent comment left a painful stitch in his ribs. Unaware of the pain he inflicted, Selwyn spoke further in a grave, somber voice.  “I swear to you by all the gods, I will protect the king and the princess with my last breath.” 

Jaime’s hurt softened into a magnanimous smile while the dark winds howled and the bitter snowflakes pummeled. Reaching out for his hand one last time, Jaime gave his father by law a handsome shake before he spoke to him his parting words. “His father would have been proud of you, my lord.” Touched by his words, Selwyn pulled Jaime into his arms and gave him a final hug in turn. “And I am proud of you, _my son_.”

Side by side, Brienne and Jaime watched the boat sail off into the black horizon until it could be seen no more. Hand in hand, husband and wife made their slow return to the Red Keep with loving touches and a thoughtful silence. As they walked, Jaime counted each snowflake that landed on Brienne's lashes; he wanted nothing more than to kiss each flake off her eyes while his wife comforted him in her arms.

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

Even in the bleakest hours, there was still beauty to be found on such a hopeless night.

The moon wasn't full but its pale light shone just as bright. The fields surrounding the nearby forest were vast and barren, weighted down under a heavy blanket of snow. Under the radiance of the moonlight, frost and snow twinkled bright; thick sheets of ice that glazed the tree branches and stones gleamed like polished glass in a fevered dream.  

Guards with the youngest eyes took watch over the towers facing north. For many nights, youthful, carefree faces started to blister and turn craggy from the harsh winds of winter, burning their round little faces into the haggard expressions of stunted old men. One young man, a ten year old boy named Daniel, held watch over the towers above the Old Gate.

From the corner of his eye, the young boy saw something strange. Two fluffy hares hopped out from he dark shadows of trees. Amused, the young boy watched the hares as they made nervous hops out into the open field. For a moment the two hares paused. And without warning, they started to run.

The little boy was amused at first, but he soon found out why the hares were running. A great stag galloped out of the wood line with a breathless, majestic ease; following by him was another stag; then another one, and another. Scores of deer started to burst from the forest line like a triumphant cavalry; seconds later, a great bear ambled out of the woods in a clumsy run; coming up shortly behind him were two other bears as well.  

And what came next was a sight that Daniel would remember until the day he died.  From the black pitch of the forest came a stampeding army of bears, deer and elk by the hundreds.  Rabbits and hares, boars and raccoons, moose and common wolves all ran together from the twisted corridors of the forest, trampling any poor creature that fell under foot. The sound of their cries and panicked calls all rose from the herd into one chilling roar of dissonance. Thousands upon thousands of animals of every kind, enemy and prey, ran together as one while they fled from the forest with primal fear.  

Men of the Old Gate tower watched in stunned silence while the massive herd ran from the forest in strange unity. The various animals swarmed together in a tight grouping, never certain who was leading or who was following. Daniel naively wonder what would make so many animals flee from the forest. Just as he was about to wonder where the animals were running to, he watched the great line of beast as they made their way closer to the steep cliffs of Blackwater Bay. 

The great herd raced as one, running off the jagged cliffs, killing themselves instantly as they made their impact on the rocky ground below. The boy watched in horror as the great tide of animals flung themselves off the cliffs and fall into bloody, boneless heaps onto the icy rocks of the shore. Beautiful, magnificent beasts of the wild held no class or distinction in the cold arms of death. 

From Daniel’s right, an alarm had sounded. It was the booming horn mounted on top of the Dragon Gate. Seconds later, the horn of the Old Gate sounded as well. Soon, every gate facing the north blared as one like a wild, mournful bell. The winter winds started to rise, and with it, thick snowflakes started to race with it.

The White Walkers were fast approaching.

 

 

\---------------------

 

 

Jaime was annoyed; the bathwater was starting to grow cold. 

Days had passed since they had sent his children to Tarth. Aware that their time in the bath was coming to an end, Jaime held onto a small frown while Brienne scrubbed at his back with soap and brush. They were seated together inside of a copper bathtub placed in their bedroom. 

They took turns bathing each other; had the burden of the war not plagued them, Jaime would have spent less time bathing and more time making love to his wife. Instead, he held on to the rim of the bathtub with his hand while wrapped up in the hold of his wife’s arms and legs.

“The night I left Harrenhal, I had a dream.” Brienne stopped scrubbing Jaime’s back. “I dreamt that I was chased down a dark staircase, naked. The stairs led me down to the caves beneath the Rock. And no matter how fast I ran, the longer the staircase seemed to grow. I kept running; every turn of the stairs, I was certain I’d reach my end, but I didn't. Men with spears chased me down, threatening me, laughing at me. And then, I reached the bottom. Water sloshed around my legs. I was cold, alone and afraid. 

“Father was there; so was Joffrey, Cersei. I begged them not to leave me; I pleaded with them and cried out . But there was no love lost from them. There was… resignation. _Disappointment._ Father gave me a sword before he left. The blade shined with a blue light—blue like your eyes.  And in that impossible darkness, you found me. You had a sword just like mine, but yours burned brighter. And in that moment, I knew that no matter what happened next, I had nothing to fear with you by my side.”

Brienne was as silent as a crypt.  No words were spoken, there was only a cool lull that straddled Jaime’s back. Fearful he was being too morose, he mistook his wife’s silence for thoughtful understanding. Letting out a heavy sigh, relieved of his gloomy confession, he sank his body deep into the copper tub and rested his full weight on Brienne’s chest. He was no longer afraid of hurting his wife; in all ways, Jaime knew Brienne’s true strength—he always knew strength in his wife’s arms.  

A watery protest strangled Brienne’s throat. She wanted to speak but she was disturbed by Jaime’s dream. She knew that dream, knew it too well and she was too afraid to admit it. 

Rattled by his words, she pulled Jaime closer to her chest and felt the soap and brush slip from her fingers. With the heavy weight of his head resting on her collarbone, she buried her lips deep into his wet hair and kissed him with a heart swollen by love. Exhausted, Jaime closed his eyes and pulled Brienne’s hand close to his mouth, giving it a sweet, chivalrous kiss. It was the kind of kiss honorable knights gave to beautiful maidens in a song.

The fire in their bedroom crackled with life; keeping her back to the flames in fear of seeing unwanted visions, Brienne dropped her head against the rim of the bathtub and cast her eyes up above; she watched the shadows dance with light on the stone ceiling for only a moment.  

“Why didn’t you tell me of Qyburn’s experiments?” Brienne opened her eyes. She could tell by Jaime’s tone that his question had bothered him for a while. His voice sounded casual but his neck was tense and every word seemed to linger on the threshold between sarcasm and anger.

“Because I didn’t want to admit it.” Blue eyes started to dart over Jaime’s back while a lump of self hatred started to dissolve in her mouth. “I didn’t want to believe something so horrible could exist.” Her voice dropped even lower. “I didn’t want you to compare me to those poor creatures we found. I didn't want you to think of me as one of those monsters.” 

Tepid bathwater splashed over the rim of the tub while Jaime turned around to face his wife. “Brienne— _you are not a monster._ ” Feeling exposed under his baffled gaze, Brienne lowered her eyes down like a blushing maiden and dragged her knees to her chest. She felt like a fraud; a hideous, undead beast who managed to con a beautiful man into loving her.  

As the fire in the hearth popped and snapped with rustic cheer, Brienne watched the bathwater gradually settle in the copper tub before she spoke again in a soft, doubtful voice. “How can you say that?”

Jaime could feel his stomach drop as panic began to set in. “ _Brienne_ —all that I am, all that I want to be, it’s because of you.” She heard his words, but Jaime knew she still did not listen. Undeterred, he continued. “People have always sneered at me; they've called me ‘Kingslayer’ and 'Oathbreaker' behind my back. And after a while... you start to believe that's all you are. 

“But then, I met you. And yes; you called me those names. But you did something that others couldn't do: you listened to me. You accepted me for who I was. _You called me by my name._  You are more precious to me than all the gold in Casterly.” Brienne averted her eyes. “I need you to have faith in me. I need you to trust me.” Slow, blue eyes gradually met with Jaime’s. “I would ride through all seven hells just to find you, love. And all I ask in return is for you to meet me halfway.” 

_The things we do for love._

“I trust you.”  

Jaime brought his hand up to curl it around the back of her neck. “Say it again.” Brienne felt her face start to drift closer to her husband’s mouth with a slight tremor in her lips. “I trust you.”  Feeling doubtful, he inched his face closer to hers with a firm, seductive purr.

“ _Swear it_.”

“I swear, I trust you.” The traces of a smile started to flit on Jaime’s lips.  Brienne whispered her vow to him once more with a small gasp. “I love you so much, _I swear it_.” Satisfied, Jaime finally closed the narrowing distance between their mouths. Tender lips searched and prodded until finally, he heard Brienne’s soft moan once his tongue gained entry to her mouth. Though the bathwater had gone cold, neither one of noticed once Jaime's arms started to wind their way around her back.     

A loud horn suddenly cracked the air and broke their tenuous peace.  Seconds later, an anxious knocking on their bedroom door filled their private chambers. 

 

 It was war.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I once said that I was going to write only 20 chapters. Well... I guess that makes me a lying liar!
> 
> The final number is 21 now. Only two more chapters to go...


	20. The Dead Woman (revisited)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War begins and the White Walkers are finally known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each and every one of you: thank you.  
> I fiercely regret that this story has taken me so long. I want you to know I haven't forgotten this story and I'm indebted to all of you for being so lovely and paitent.
> 
> This chapter is broken up into two parts: this first half is today, the second half will be posted tomorrow. Because there are so many things happening here, I thought it'd be best to break it up into two portions so it's easier to read.
> 
> This story is nearly finished. Before February is out, it will be done.

This chapter title is inspired by the poem, The Dead Woman, by Pablo Neruda.  I've already used it for the first chapter, however I wanted us to circle back to it again. You can read it [here](https://allpoetry.com/The-Dead-Woman) if you're interested.

 

 

A storm of bells rang from the furthest reaches of the capital to the very heart of the Red Keep. From the black towers of the City Watch to the crystal spires in the Great Sept of Baelor, the bellow of war was a constant and near deafening call. A wistful thought plagued Jaime; he remembered the last time he heard the bells ring with such alacrity: it was on the day his son, King Tommen was born.

Brienne studied Peck’s hands as he made the final adjustments to her armor, fastening Oathkeeper around her waist with swift hands. A sickly wave roiled in the pit of her stomach. _It's nerves,_ she assured herself, _it only nerves._ Bracing herself against a flash of nausea, Brienne closed her eyes and focused on the sound of Jaime as he paced the bedroom floor. Willing herself not to throw up, she focused on the soft _clicks_ he made as he crossed the room with heavy boots and gilded plate. Fully dressed and prepared for battle, Jaime’s hand gripped the pommel of the Fair Maid while he grew impatient.

Anxious to leave, Brienne looked down at her reforged armor and tried not to fidget. She’d been fortunate to keep her blue armor in spite of all that's happened. The Second Brotherhood packed it for the trial by combat, but the High Sparrow demanded the faith’s champion to wear armor of their choosing. Shortly before they were married, Jaime had the blacksmith refurbished her metalwork to its former glory. Shining with dark oil and buffered into a smooth finish, her favored armor shined with the creamy luster of a twilight blue night.

Snapping the final locks into place, Peck looked up at Brienne with eager eyes. "Will that be everything, my lady?” Feeling more bundled than a swaddled infant, Brienne struggled to move her arms and legs beneath the thick padding and heavy plate. Flexing her arm with the _crink_ and _crackle_ of fresh leather and steel, Brienne shook her head 'no' and excused the lad with a soft 'thank you.'

Alone at last, Brienne turned to Jaime as the bedroom windows began to shudder; servants of the Keep were racing down the halls to secure every window and door. Maegor’s Holdfast boomed with marching boots and frantic calls for assembly. Once the bedroom door closed, Brienne caught Jaime's eyes while her stomach lurched again. _What if I’m_ …

An annoying question started to gnaw at Brienne. _...is it possible?_  Ignoring the query with a shake of the head, she turned her back on Jaime and reached for something tucked inside her helm. It was small, dark and gnarled.

Between calloused fingers, Jaime was slow to realize that Brienne held onto the blackened stem of a dried rose. It was the same rose Jaime plucked for her when they’d stopped to water their horses on the ride from Penny Tree. He’d said that he wanted her to have the first winter rose; it was a small, darling little bud that hadn't yet bloomed. Holding onto the stem as if she were carrying a sacrament, Brienne held up the rose to Jaime with the look of a sweet maid.

Incredulous, Jaime reached out for the tiny rosebud with slow, reverent fingers.  Moments ago he’d been barking orders at Addam Marbrand, but now his voice dwindled to a throaty whisper; it was a playful, husky voice that belonged to the sunken pillows of a happy marriage bed. Letting out a huff of surprise, Jaime drawled with an impish grin. “You told me that you hated roses.”

Brienne unknowingly smoothed a hand over the scar across her throat. “I’ve hated all roses… but I could never hate yours.” A triumphant smirk flashed across his lips. Glancing back down at the flower, Jaime's forehead creased into a dark smudge of confusion. “I thought I’d tossed this into the fields...” Brienne grimaced in spite of the soft laughter in his voice.

“I recovered it moments before the Brotherhood captured us.” Jaime’s grin started to fade. “I’d hid it beneath the collar of my chainmail.” A broad thumb gingerly stroked the crisp petals of the rosebud; it was once the shade of a sky-blue glacier, but over time the flower had darkened to a rich azure blue. Twisting the dried rose carefully, Jaime nearly flinched when he saw that the other half was splattered crimson with dried blood. _Brienne’s blood._ Jaime’s face drained of its color. “When the Silent Sisters dressed me for burial, they’d returned the rose to my chainmail just as I’d left it.”

A sting of tears threatened at the corners of Jaime's eyes. He remembered standing vigil over her that day. He remembered hating himself for all the things he wanted to share but never had the courage to say. He remembered watching the Silent Sisters ready Brienne's corpse for her final bath with legs that threatening to buckle and a heart that would never stop breaking. Jaime had no idea Brienne had kept his pitiful rose. In retrospect, he was grateful that he didn’t find out about it. Had he known she carried it to her final battle, the very idea of it would have been his undoing.

“I’ve decided that I want you to have it.” Jaime’s eyes cleared as Brienne licked her lower lip with a shy grin. “I wore it as your favor in the trial by combat. It made me feel as though you were fighting there beside me.”

Jaime handed the rose back to Brienne before he unfastened his pauldron with clumsy fingers. “Will my lady do me the honor then?” Helping him remove the gilded lion over his shoulder, Brienne smiled as she wove the blood stained rose into the rings of his hauberk. Slowly locking the armor back into place, she smoothed a hand over the roaring lion with a thoughtful gaze. “We may have to be apart for some time.” Jaime’s mouth hardened into a grim line. “There’s only so much Valyrian steel in the capital...”

Sick of the war, sick fighting; tired of the lies and all of the half-truths, Jaime brushed his nose against the scar on Brienne's cheek with a deep sigh and a quiet longing for peace. Her lips skimmed over his beard as she struggled for her next breath. Slowly, wide lips turned to Jaime’s before sinking into a deep kiss.

It was a soft kiss that was innocent and tender. It was a kiss that dared them to hold onto a dream of spring.

 

——————————-

 

Bells clanged with a hollow doom over quiet roads, empty plazas and snow tumbled alleyways. Townsfolk watched in fear as a smooth blanket of mist rolled in from the treelines. A dense fog threatened to overrun the city walls, concealing the advent of the terror that awaited them. As the white haze swept over empty fields and icy streams, the arctic mist turned everything into a rippling glaze of pale blue ice. The only words that were spoken that hour were the faint murmur of prayers that tumbled past bloodless lips.

Men at the gates started to panic as the fog began to inch closer, threatening to swallow up the lofty gate towers. Some guards reported seeing an army rise from the billows. Some said ten thousand were marching towards them; some said twenty. Stationed between two merlons on the city walls, Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, Ser Addam Marbrand and a few commanding officers watched the fog roll in with hard eyes and blank faces.

Jaime scrubbed a hand over his beard and tried not to let anyone see his frustration. _How can I defend these people if we can’t bloody well see anything?_ Clenching and unclenching his hand beneath a thick glove, the Hand of the King slowly turned to Ser Addam Marbrand and gave a command in a soft voice. “Prepare the archers.”

Making a sharp turn past Lady Brienne, Addam commanded the archers to volley fire. “Archers! At the ready!” Hundreds of arrows began to _tick_ and _click_ while soldiers prepared to launch their first string of fire. There was no telling how many men were marching towards the gates, but Jaime needed to break the fog somehow.

“Nock!” Men dunked their cloth tip arrows into small braziers. “Draw!” Five hundred arms pulled back in unison. _“LOOSE!”_ The thrum of bow strings plucked the night air; hundreds of blazing arrows took flight before landing in a white haze. Jaime squinted into the fog while arrow flames cast a dim light over the fields. Brienne’s face turned white with horror. She had seen this moment before.

Putrid flesh clung onto the faces of men, women, and children. Shambling legs and broken arms swung loosely in a thoughtless march forward. It was hard to make an accurate count among the lit arrows, but Jaime’s estimate looked closer to twenty thousand. From a distance, Addam looked over at Jaime and waited for his next order. Startled, Jaime commanded the archers set loose the obsidian arrows.

_“Notch! Draw! Loose!”_

Bow strings plucked again, this time launching dragon glass onto the closing wights. By the light of the arrows, Jaime saw that the dragon glass had no effect on them. Obsidian tore through papery flesh and rotted muscle without reaction. _Why in the seven hells did the Night’s Watch plead for dragon glass?_ Desperate, Jaime dropped his arm again, signaling to launch another round. Again, the arrows were useless.

Confusion melted into a trickle of fear as Jaime came to terms with what had to be done. A cold sweat bloomed across his face. “Prepare the casks.” Addam nodded his head and commanded his soldiers on the ground.

“CASKS!”

Hundreds of men rolled oaken barrels into trenches spanning the wall. Everyone cleared away when one archer notched back a flaming arrow, hesitating with quivering arms. Of the hundreds of barrels lying in the freshly dug channels, he only had to hit one—the rest would ignite by a chain reaction.

The horde grew closer. Closer. The archer closed his eyes, said a prayer and let loose his arrow.

A sharp crack followed a deafening boom, erupting into a showering blaze of heat, sound, and color. Green flames exploded into a flash inferno, spreading to other casks inside the trenches. The rest of the barrels exploded in a quick succession; a wall of clover-green light erupted in front of wights, bathing them in the eerie glow of a perverted fire. Jaime could finally get a count on how many surrounded by the wall.   _Fifty_ _—_ no. _Sixty thousand._

The channels were stationed far from the city so the wildfire couldn’t be a threat to King’s Landing. The green inferno launched flaming pieces shrapnel from the barrels, spraying onto the wights and igniting them by the hundreds. Many of the dead fell to the ground motionless; others scattered back into the horde, igniting other wights as well. The crowd stopped their march, away from the fire. _Wildfire will burn for hours and hours._ Jaime looked towards Brienne with a sliver of hope. He could see a faint optimism glimmer in her eyes as well. _This could work… we may have a chance._

“My lord! My lord!” Jaime turned to see a messenger running towards him with a stricken look on his face. “There are others—the Blackwater! _The dead are rising from the Blackwater!”_

Brienne moved past Jaime and scanned the city wall along the Blackwater Rush. By the faint light of the towers, they could see a dim procession of wights rise up from the black tide.

 

——————————-

 

Lannister men were at the ready, dragon glass spears in hand and prepared to march. Though many were eager for battle, the rest were so innocent and green they looked like they were about to piss themselves standing in formation.

The lashing winds grizzled the faces of battle-tested men and fresh-faced boys alike; scrawny lads tried to mimic their veteran counterparts with displays of false bravado along with cocky glares. In attendance were other people who were not fit to serve in any army; prisoners stood in formation alongside cut throats and rapists, craven sellswords and dubious men of the City Watch

Seated astride his white horse, Jaime Lannister rode past the scores of men with a blank face and sharp eyes. _If father were here, he would’ve been outraged by this assembly._ Shaking the intrusive thought from his head, Jaime gritted his teeth and dismounted his mare to find Lady Brienne.

From a distance, a cask of wildfire had erupted in one of the distant trenches, booming into a hot spray of emerald light and amber-green embers. Men in formation started to mutter amongst themselves as their horses whinnied in fear. “Complete madness.” “This whole city is just a waiting tinderbox!” “The wildfire might take us if the Others don’t.”  Pacifying her stallion with a gentle pat on the neck and a lull of shushes, Brienne reigned her skittish mount to a standstill as Jaime stepped forward.

Doing her best to soothe her horse, Jaime inspected Brienne’s saddle and tightened the rear cinch with a lazy grin. After a tense moment of panic, Brienne praised her steed as it started to nicker and huff with flickering ears. Letting out a small smile, she sighed as the horse finally calmed down with a darling snuffle.

“Fool was I to think that I could be the only man to fall in love with you.”

Brienne’s sharp eyes hunted for Jaime’s. Confusion settled into annoyance as her chiding face caught his smile; she looked down and watched him as he stroked her stallion’s mane with a grin. “Ser. You resent the affections of my horse?”

Jaime chuffed with a shake of the head. “No, my lady— rather… _I’m jealous_. That horse should be me.” Feeling bold, he locked eyes onto hers and made no attempts at being discreet. _“I_ should be the one to have you seated astride me — those outrageous legs wrapped around me; whispering me sweet words, soothing me, commanding me… _riding me.”_ In spite of his jest, Jaime looked up at Brienne with an odd expression on his face—he looked proud of her, but a whisper of fear had droned in his ears. Scanning the crowd to see if anyone was listening, Brienne squirmed with a blush as soldiers made brief eye contact with hers.

Brienne was prepared to scold her husband when an unexpected thought took her by surprise. _Jaime doesn't care what others might think of us…_ Her annoyance with him began to soften when a flash of insight took her by surprise. _He truly loves me without shame._

Those thoughts came to an end when Jaime laughed at the strange look puckered on her face. “Come, come now wench; you can’t be cross with me at a time like this.” He quirked his head off to the side, making a faint nod towards the war beyond the Red Keep. “Besides, you really shouldn't make that face. In this cold, that ugly scowl of yours will likely freeze there permanently.” Brienne's guarded smile flattened into a dour sigh. Jaime shook his head with chuckling defeat while her broad mouth flickered up into a shy grin.

It felt good to smile again; only the seven knew the last time they’d teased each other. Though Jaime presented himself to the world as someone who was playful and arrogant, Brienne watched a shadow of nerves start to bleed into his handsome face. _He's scared for his children…_ Readjusted her weight in the saddle, Brienne angled her head closer to Jaime's and spoke in an assuring whisper. “Father said that Tommen and Myrcella would be guarded deep inside the marble quarries of Tarth.” Jaime nodded his understanding with a blank face. _Something else bothers him._ “Are you nervous?”

Jaime looked down at his boots and cringed. “Of course not.” _...but I can't stomach the thought of losing you again._ Holding her gaze for a long moment, Brienne slowly turned her eyes back down with a slow comprehension. “And you?”

Brienne glanced back up at him as he continued. “Are you nervous?” Jaime stared at her with a silent plea in his eyes. Holding her breath, she looked away before a hitch could rise in her throat. _I am scared to death of losing you._ “Of course not.”

A small clobber of hooves broke the spell as one man coughed and another man grumbled under his breath; Brienne’s cavalry was turning restless. Darting his eyes over the anxious men—most of them starved for honor and glory—Jaime glanced back up at his wife and flashed her a cocky smirk. “Good. Now, give me a kiss, and I shall ride off into battle with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.”

Brienne chewed on her lower lip as he glared at her with a roguish leer. Though Jaime wasn't ashamed of loving his wife, she still grappled with his penchant for public displays of affection. In the days following her marriage, Brienne was saddened to realize that she was more comfortable with humiliation and judgment rather than acceptance and love. Feeling timid, Brienne took a deep breath and closed her eyes while leaning over, fully expecting a dry, reserved kiss from her husband. Instead, Jaime speared his fingers through her hair and drowned her lips in a kiss so deep, she nearly forgotten herself as they slowly parted.

Looking rather smug by the flushed look on her face, Jaime slowly inched back with a beaming grin as he walked backwards, allowing his wife the space she needed to ride off into battle. “Now… _go,_ you indomitable wench, before I change my mind. I’m tempted to drag you off your horse right now; perhaps I’ll fling you over my shoulders and carrying you off to bed.” Brienne hunched over in her armor, trying to bury her pink ears into her shoulders as men squirmed at Jaime’s lusty threat to his wife.

Fighting back a grin, Brienne collected her reigns, sat tall on her horse and leveled her chin to the black horizon. From the corner of her eyes, she watched her husband stride towards his men with a faint swagger in his step. Brienne hesitated; she was thrilled by Jaime’s incendiary kiss. Greedy for another, she fought back a smirk and called out to her husband with a mock frown in her voice.

“Ser!”

Jaime spun on his heel with a flashing grin. “You've favored me with a kiss before I ride off into battle.” Jaime nodded his head with satisfaction. “How shall I return your favor?” Letting out a small bark of laughter, Jaime reached up with his left hand and patted the golden pauldron on his right shoulder. “Though your sweet kiss is all the favor a man needs, my lady, it’ll be the thought of that _sweet flower_ you hide that’ll please me more!”

Some of the men in the courtyard hooted and whistled in salacious praise of their lord commander; others grumbled while the rest tried hard not to laugh. Though Brienne knew full well that Jaime spoke of the winter rose she’d tucked into his hauberk, everyone else assumed that he was making a bawdy quip instead.

Both annoyed and flattered by his affection, Brienne picked up her reins and clipped her heels into the sides of her horse with a flush burning her cheeks. With a fading smile and dimming eyes, Jaime watched Brienne lead her men off to battle as he prepared to follow soon after.

 

\--------------------

 

Men stationed at the River Gate were close to defeat when Brienne arrived with reinforcements. Though the wildfire trenches protected the walls of King’s Landing, the shores along the Rush were too narrow for such defenses, leaving the River Gate all the more susceptible to attack.

Flaming arrows greeted wights as they breached the frigid coast off the Blackwater Rush.  Moaning corpses staggered out of the dark waters, crawling over jagged rocks to wash up from the crashing tides. The winter storms were brutal out to sea, making the Blackwater merciless on the docks of King’s Landing. As the waves receded, archers picked off hundreds of wights on the shore by flame. When the tide rolled out, the flaming bodies were flushed back to the sea, but when the tide returned, a fresh wave of wights soon followed.

Brienne led her men outside the city walls to defend the gate. Horses galloped onto the docks; sword slashed into the soft, leathery flesh of the wights. Bones, brittle and white, clattered to an unceremonious heap on the shore when they were decapitated. Word quickly spread across the River Gate: the wights could be stopped either by flames or by the removal of their heads. Flames took to the sky, feathering the dead that climbed out of the frigid waters. Brienne raced across the tide on horseback, riding in a snowy blur with dozens of men as they beheaded wights and dodged arrows.

Jaime’s battalion arrived at the River Gate minutes later. Searching the ramparts for Brienne, he asked the commanding officer of the gate where she was. With a mangled arm, the office pointed down at the shore while men screamed and arrows whistled. Peering over, Jaime saw his wife among the chaos and felt his chest swell with a Lannister’s pride. From a distance, he could see her riding among her men with Oathkeeper in hand, slicing off wight heads with the red and silver flash of her blade.

Prepared to join her outside the gates, one man called out to Jaime. Pointing towards the thick of the rush, they watched the tides of the Blackwater slow down into a roll of slush before it solidified and froze over. Black waves grew sluggish before they hardened up into frothy, icy peaks. Bodies of the undead were locked into place as their arms and heads flailed out of the frozen waves. As the frozen waters reached closer to the shore, a mist of white death gathered in the dark horizon.

The first thing Jaime could see was their armor; the strange plating glinted in the dark, flashing bright like a mirror caught in the sunlight. From the clench of fog, Jaime could see four men ride out from the pale billows. They were no men, really; they were monstrous creatures—an affront to all the gods. Tall like trees, thin, knotted and bloodless, their skin was rippled like the warped pages of a book and as pale as a winter’s moon.

As the four creatures rode in across the frozen water, Jaime watched them navigate the icy terrain on the backs of dead mounts. Two rode in on rotted, frostbitten horses; a third rode on the shoulders of a molding bear while the fourth was seated upon a gutted and boney stag. In each of their hands they carried long, chilling blades— swords so clear, so delicate and fine they appeared to be made of a luminous blue ice. In the dark, Jaime caught a glimpse of their burning blue eyes… He shuddered. It felt as though their eyes were peering at him, judging him from the bleak caverns of eternal night.

It was the White Walkers.     

Stricken, Jaime scanned the shores along the ramparts while men launched flaming arrows into wights. Finally, he found her. Brienne rode with fewer men now, but still, she remained unharmed. Riding like a demon, slashing at the necks of creatures made of bone and decay, he got to see how much poise his wife had in the harrowing winds of warfare. She commanded her men with quick thinking and a tactical precision, always defending them as she rode with the ease of a fearless knight. Though she was brave on the field of combat, Jaime knew she was oblivious to the horror that was closing in on them.

Darting his eyes between the White Walkers, the wights and his wife, Jaime was preparing to storm out to the shore—he was eager to taste combat again. As soon as he blinked, Jaime realized that the White Walkers had suddenly disappeared. _Where are they?_ Jaime squinted at the black tides. _Where did they go? Brienne..._

Feeling as though he was watching her trial by combat all over again, Jaime paled as he struggled to find the White Walkers in the dark. He began to panic. Four creatures rode unseen on the dawn of a new nightmare, and for all he knew, they were closing in on Brienne. Glancing at the officer in charge of the River Gate, Jaime hollered a command. “Sound the horns! Have them pull back!

The horns blared three times in a row. _“Retreat, retreat!”_

Trumpets blasted over the clash of swords and the screams of dying men. Throwing a sharp look at the gates, Brienne looked over her shoulder to see why they'd been ordered to retreat. Through the swell of fog, she caught faint glimpses of the White Walkers as they rode in on a black tide; their glassy armor flashed in the dark as they rode parallel to the blazing fires dotting the shoreline.

Suddenly nauseous, Brienne’s skin turned clammy as her blood ran ice cold. Haunting blue eyes—blue like starlight—locked onto hers as a sharp chill threatened to freeze in her lungs. With a gust of the wind and a pummel of snow, the White Walkers vanished before her eyes. Brienne suddenly understood the call for retreat. _“Head back to the gates! Now! Go!”_

Leaping over piles of headless wights and smoldering corpses, Brienne led the remainder of her men back to the gate. Dismounting from her horse in a flash, she flew up the ramparts to find Jaime. “The Others— _t_ _he Others are approaching.”_ Relieved to have her near, Jaime fought with his impulse to tug her into his arms and never let go. “I know. Are you alright?” Brienne struggled with words; hesitant to speak, Jaime replied with a gradual nod of understanding. “We need to vacate the shore before we can start.” Brienne’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“You mean to—” Jaime dragged his fingers through his hair, half tempted to pull it out by the root in frustration.

“I know the risk, but we have no choice. Either we light up the shores _now_ , or we all die _tonight.”_ Knowing how hard the decision was for him, Brienne fell quiet and nodded her head in agreement. “Have the archers hold fire on my word. We need to roll the casks far enough from the city before we can ignite them.” Parting ways after they’d exchanged a soft look, Jaime ordered his men to elevate the ramps for a speedy deployment.

Soldiers guarding the gates cranked back thick chains from the winches and pulleys lining the battlements. As black chains _click clicked_ behind the ramparts, half a dozen suspension bridges—converted into steep ramps—popped up from the snowy ground outside the city walls. Each suspension bridge had an end bolted to the ground, allowing the casks to roll far away from the city gates. Brienne called for a ‘ceasefire’ after the last ramp was deployed.

Grizzled men who’d survived barbaric wars and bloody skirmishes were petrified as they loaded wildfire barrels on top of the ramps. Though the bridges were made up of thick ropes and sturdy planks, the converted ramps were sound but men gasped as they watched them sway in the wind. Gulping back their fears, the soldiers unleashed the barrels as the wights closed in. The archers couldn’t loose any of their arrows until the final cask had rolled from the ramps. Jaime felt the color drain from his face. “Notch…” Archers with flames prepared to fire. “Draw…” The wights were getting closer to the city walls. _“Loose!”_

Gold and orange flames tore through the sky. Flaming arrows dropped down from the heavens, landing onto most of the barrels dotted along the shore. Most of the casks erupted into a hot shower of green flames. Jaime’s eyes turned wide as his mouth fell open in horror.

He watched the flames spark and dance over the ice, skipping over snow and corpses with a haunting grace. Wights were incinerated by the thousands, melting back into the ice as piles of black soot and ash. Up close, Jaime could hear the wights as they were fed to the flames, letting out their ungodly screams. Emerald flames bled into the black waters, melting patches of thick ice back into shallow puddles. Shrapnel from the explosion launched green embers into the wind, spinning backward towards the gate like celebratory fireworks.

Brienne was starting to feel good about their chances, but from out of the darkness, a bright flash of light blinded her. Seconds later, a cask of wildfire was launched back at the wall. Everyone watched the barrel fly at an alarming speed towards the ramparts. The men over the gates tried to scream out for help. Before anyone had a chance to run, the oak barrel smashed against the battlements and turned the wall into a tidal of green fire.

From a distance, Jaime watched the men stationed over the River Gate burst into flames. He heard the men screaming—weeping, pleading for death. He watched his men succumb to a violent death, crumbling to their knees with their arms and legs twisted up like the blackened wicks of candles. By the time men brought over barrels of sand to extinguish the flames, all of the men that were kissed by wildfire had died a slow, painful death.

_‘Burn them all…’_

Jaime was suddenly on the verge of throwing up.   

_‘...I’ll give them naught but ashes.’_

Among the veil of smoke, sooty corpses lined the ramparts, shivering before they fluttered into a plume of ash and splintered bones. A loud crack sounded over the roar of the fire; the clamor of rocks followed when an avalanche of stone and mortar began to fall. Without warning, the ramparts over the River Gate shuddered before toppling over in a tempest of smoke and green flames. A narrow portion of the city wall had fallen to the ground.

Wights climbed over the pieces of rubble that were void of flames. Jaime looked down at the dead that swarmed over the ruins. He felt helpless, sickly, gutted by what he’d done. _I am a madman..._

           _‘Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat.’_

The voice of King Aerys droned on in his head. Soldiers ran from the flames that threatened to consume the rest of the wall. Too stunned to move, Brienne grabbed Jaime’s arm and led him down the ramparts, away from the roaring fire. Running on legs made of water, Jaime followed Brienne with thoughts of the Mad King assailing him.  

Because of him—because of the choices he made to defend the Blackwater, he had singlehandedly opened their gates to their enemies.

_‘Burn them all.’_

 

\--------------------------

 

  
Cloistered inside the dockyard stables, men readied their horses to ride out and hunt down the Others. Soldiers within the city where already defending the capitol against the wight invasion. Arming themselves with dragon glass and preparing for combat, Brienne searched the crowds for Jaime; she hadn’t seen him since they’d ran from the blaze on the battlements.

Seated in a dark corner with spooked eyes and a dazed expression, Brienne approached her husband with an air of fear in her steps. The last time she’d seen him this quiet, he was suffering from a fever after the loss of his hand. Quietly offering him a skin of water only to be refused, she knelt down and placed a soft hand on his thigh. “You’re trembling like a leaf.” Jaime frowned when he started to notice the shaking in his hand.

_“I’m no better than the Mad King…”_

Brienne flinched. _“No._ Jaime. That’s not true—” He wouldn’t hear it. “I’m a butcher, Brienne…” Soldiers who were preparing to ride out avoided Jaime with curling grumbles and awkward silence. “Jaime — _you’re not him,_ ” her voice lowered down to a whisper, “you’re not the Mad King. You’re defending the city; you are doing your best to protecting us all; you’re not—”

Tired of her impossible honor, Jaime gritted the front of his teeth with a dark glare and spat out his reply. “I butchered a mad man for the safety of the realm, and yet here I am, feeding innocents to the flame: _I’m no better than he.”_

Brienne was stunned. From the corner of her eyes, she watched a scout hobble towards them with a heavy limp. Struggling to catch his breath, the young soldier approached Jaime with fresh blood crusting on his face. “My lord Hand; we have reports of White Walkers within the city. Ser, we’ve been monitoring the shore and the wreckage at the gate but— _somehow_ _—_ they managed to ride past without being detected.” As grim as the news was, Jaime wasn’t surprised by it. “Two Walkers traveling on horseback ride near the Sept of Baelor. One has been spotted near Flea Bottom and the fourth rides for Visenya’s Hill.

Numb with self-loathing, Jaime was quiet as his eyes drifted down with a blank face. Soldiers had crowded around as the scout made his report to the Hand of the King. Morale amongst the troops began to wane as they watched their lord commander look down at his boots with bewildered eyes. Feeling adrift as his memories returned to the night he slew the Mad King, Jaime tried to conceal his gold hand with a grimace as he searched for words and failed.

Frightened by his beaten demeanor, Brienne quickly stepped in with a deft air and spoke up in a calm, firm voice. “Ser Jaime has already made his decision: we will divide up into two parties and root out the Others. I, along with Ser Enger, will lead our men and ride west for Visenya’s Hill. Ser Jaime and Ser Addams will take their men and ride north for Flea Bottom. We will reconvene near the Sept of Baelor afterward to take out the final two— _together.”_

Voices buzzed within the stable swelled into a dull roar of questions until Addam’s voice snarled with disgust. “Those were your orders, ladies; _not a suggestion!_ Enger? Assemble your men! Lannister forces? Fall in line besides mine, now!”

Boots shuffled towards the exits of the stables with bitter complaints and crafty words of doubt. Much to Jaime’s surprise, as he rose back up to a stand, Brienne snuck a quick peck on his cheek amongst the soldiers who filed past.

Brienne's eyes sank with a blush as Jaime’s self-hatred gave way to mild hope. Feeling renewed, he watched Brienne turn around to join her men. Moments before she turned the corner and parted from his line of sight, she looked back at him with a brief smile.

To Brienne, it felt like a miracle when she noticed that he smiled back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part will be published tomorrow afternoon (January 28th, 2017).
> 
> Thanks so much for reading.


	21. The Dead Woman (revisited) pt.II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post yesterday but there was a scene in here that didn't sit right with me. As much as I wanted to publish it for you, I just can't publish something until I finally feel... content with it. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.  
> All my love to you, dear reader. : )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II:

The dead crawled through sewers lines and scaled over walls. Children screamed as the dead tore out their hair and ripped off their flesh. An old man tried to climb up a rickety ladder but before he could climb up to safety, the dead sank their teeth into the back of his withered legs . The wights were many, they were tireless and they decimated hovels and homes like swarms of locusts obliterating field.

Riding down the Street of Sisters, Jaime felt pity for the civilians. They weren't trained soldiers or men of brute strength. They were the common folk; they were disabled fathers and half-witted sons. They were farmers and bakers, fishmongers and chandlers. Though they were brave, in truth, they had no chance and no choice; if they wanted to survive, they had to fight.

Soldiers, however, were frustrated to see all of the needless deaths that the civilians caused; the common folk were often the source for most of the collateral damage. Jaime was horrified to see crates of dragon glass slide off of wagons or fall out of clumsy hands, shattering the precious blades into worthless piles of splinters. Many of the people didn’t even fight; they just dropped their obsidian weapons to the ground and searched for places to hide. The worst had been the fires. Hundreds of homes, taverns and whore houses were set ablaze in the heart of Flea Bottom--not by fault of the wildfire; they were set off by men and women who turned reckless with torches and braziers.

No sound was worse than the sickening clatter of bones as the dead closed in on its prey. Grey flesh swung on gaunt faces in dripping swaths of clotted skin. Most of the lips had curled away from yellow teeth, greeting their victims with hissing mouths and ghastly smiles. Sightless eyes—pearly white and oozing—searched for the living while noseless faces sniffed the air for warm blood.

Horses threw back their heads and whinnied as a tavern wall began to shatter. Dozens of gray hands punched holes through the plaster. Men screamed, and horses fell as the dead tore through and broke down the wall. Skeletal arms dragged screaming men into the shadows with their sharp fingers and grinning skulls. The roar of fires wasn’t loud enough to drown out the screams as soldiers watched themselves being disemboweled by the dead. Horses cried out and tried to rear as the wights closed in on them, mincing their flanks into ribbons of bloody flesh.

Charging down the streets near Flea Bottom, Jaime led his men to the location his White Walker was last spotted. As the roads grew slick with ice, horses grumbled and staggered as they fought for sure footing on the steep roads. Fearing for their horses, Jaime ordered his men to cut through the alleyways to find a shortcut.

Though all seemed hopeless, Jaime's faith started to renew as his company made its way down the Street of Sisters. Fire arrows streaked across a snow-filled sky, feeding hundreds of undead to the flame. Commoners fought alongside soldiers and made progress at keeping the wights at bay. Bloated drunks and doe-eyed children fought beside cheating merchants and comely whores; armed with pikes tipped with dragon glass, they lobbed off the heads of wight with some ease.

Gold spires of flame licked the night skies while green flames danced alongside the smoldering ruins of the River Gate towers. Kicking the sides of his horse, Jaime led his men on a ride through the spice markets to hunt for his White Walker. Men in his company grew fearful and started to become agitated with Jaime; they wanted to retreat and find another road. A few men began to shout insults at Jaime's back as they rode on in anger and confusion. Horse hooves cobbled over marble floors as women screamed for their children and soldiers begged for quick deaths.

He knew they were closing in on the creature when the air turned biting cold. One officer called out for Jaime’s attention; from a short distance, he spotted a White Walker a hundred feet away. The fog crept in and started to grow dense; thrilled to be so close, Jaime led a charge through the courtyard at the Broken Crown Inn. Lannister forces seemed reluctant as they rode up to guard the Hand of the King while Addam's retinue circled the perimeter of the inn.

An eerie calm lingered in the air while horse hooves clipped over snowy pavers; Jaime could feel his skin start to pucker with a violent chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He was startled to realize that he could _feel_ the White Walker’s presence long before they could see them.

As sharp eyes darted over the empty plaza, everyone was taken aback when their horses started to rear out of control with ugly screams and flailing legs. Ears flicked back while large eyes bulged out in fright; the mounts knocked the riders off their saddles and bolted from the courtyard in a gale of frantic clatter.

Jaime scrambled to his feet along with the rest of his men, struggling to draw in a shaky breath after the wind was knocked out of their lungs. Crawling on their hands and knees, Jaime gagged for his next breath while men rolled to their sides and armed themselves for battle. The air was sharp and biting. A swell of fog seeped into the courtyard. They knew they were standing in the presence of the White Walkers.

The fog and snow absorbed the sounds of the city, making those who were trapped inside feel as if they were left stranded in a world made of frost and death. Pulling together into a tight circle, Jaime remained at the center with his Valyrian steel while men slowly gathered to keep a sharp perimeter around him. A soldier by the name of Loren spoke up with a shudder of fear. “Where are they?” Jaime didn't know how to answer his question. Anxious, Loren’s voice shivered before he cracked with a shrill plea. _“Where the fuck are the—"_

It suddenly fell quiet. Everyone turned when Loren's voice fell silent. A hot spray of blood flashed across the snow before Loren’s head rolled across the yard with a dull, wet thump.

It was hard to see, but Jaime was fortunate enough to detect faint, wavy outlines from the White Walker’s armor. As the soldiers relaxed their eyes, they saw the creature move as soft ripples of light in the snow. From the center of the milky fog, a long blade made of ice glowed pale blue before it sliced a man across the waist and divided him in half.

They quickly surrounded the wavy lines of the White Walker. Jaime flinched as he watched the ice blade dance and spin in the billows; the sword’s point was long and spindly and as fine as a needle's width. Slicing the fog with a blue light, men fought to duck from its path, but not all were fortunate to avoid it. Three men were slaughtered with as much ease as it was to snuff out a candle. Dragonglass spears jabbed into nothing; as soon as they touched the glassy armor, their spears erupted into a fine cloud of obsidian.

From behind, a molded bear with gouged out eyes attacked the men flanking the courtyard. Sinking his teeth through marrow and hot gushes of blood, the soldiers divided up into two groups. One-half of the men slashed at the bear while the other half stayed close to Jaime's side. A man fell when a slash of claws gouged out his throat. One man shoved a torch deep into the exposed ribs of the bear, making the beast rear up on its hind legs before he bellowed out his final roar. Falling into a heap of bones and fire, soldiers attacked the flaming carcasses to ensure its death was final.

A crunch of snow suddenly caught Jaime's attention.

“Ser Addam!”

Men blanched as they saw a blurring ripple start to gain on Addams' direction. Following the glassy shimmer, Jaime followed the Other as he prepared to launch a fatal blow towards his friend. Enraged, Jaime slid down to one knee and swung the Fair Maid into the snow and fog. Valyrian steel crashed onto mirrored plate, and for one moment, everyone could see the creature clearly. With a sharp twist of his arms and a swift turn of his wrist, he swung again and felt his steel bite deep into the pale flesh of the White Walker.

For a moment the Fair Maid was trapped in a block of ice. Jaime struggled to pull the Fair Maid out while the creature turned his head and glared at him. Blue eyes stared into Jaime's, burning with rage and an otherworldly hate. A high pitched scream tore at his eardrums. The milky white flesh crackled into shards of gray ice before tumbling into snowy crystals and pouring out the gaps in the collapsing armor. The White Walker’s spear fell onto a bed of snow; Jaime looked down at the sharp blade and shuddered with a panted breath. _Close. That was too close..._

Ser Addam knelt down to pick up Jaime and gave his friend a firm pat on the back. “God’s damn it— _I thought for sure you were a goner!”_ Jaime pretended to laugh. Addam pointed down towards the White Walker and snorted with a beaming grin. “Look at that! You cut off the fucks right hand!” Knocking gray ice from his armor, Jaime looked down and realized that Addam was right. A right hand made of rotted ice still gripped onto pommel of the blue ice spear.

Glancing up from the White Walker’s remains, a foot soldier noticed that the fog was starting to fade. The biting cold had dissipated while the creature's armor faded from its shine to a dull, white plating. “That armor looks like it belongs to the Kingsguard.” Addam grinned at his friend's wry comment. When the fog had cleared, Jaime was amazed to see a mass of dead wights lining the streets. Startled, he turned to Addam with an unexpected tilt to his voice. “Did your men kill _all_ of these wights?”

One of the younger soldiers spoke up. “You did, Ser.” Jaime look was skeptical. “As soon as the Walker fell, the wights surrounding this area fell also.” Sliding the Fair Maid back into its scabbard, Jaime quirked his mouth off to the side with a baffled look. Letting out a deep sigh, Addam rubbed a thumb over his lips and made a motion towards the pile of gray frost. “Maybe these wights... _belonged_ to him?”

Jaime blinked with faint amusement. _“‘Belonged to him?’”_ Addam smirked and tried hard not to laugh. “Well, I don’t know how else to describe it—but, what if the wights can only live and die by the Others that made them?” Jaime paused as he mulled over his friend’s theory. “Huh. _Curious_.” _Although, in this day and age, I suppose anything’s possible..._

A hard clipping of hooves echoed through nearby streets. Far off in the distance, Jaime could see more wights terrorizing the markets near Visenya’s Hill. Feeling a coil of fear snap in his gut, Jaime made a silent prayer to the gods to ensure Brienne’s protection. The cantering hooves rode closer. A strong voice commanded half of the forces to ride south for the Street of Steel. As the party grew closer to where they stood, the voice shouting out orders started to grow more familiar.

_“Brienne?”_

The retinue turned and faced the steep road headed towards the Broken Crown Inn. From his end of the street, Jaime watched his wife ride closer to him with a harried look on her face. 

“Jaime?”

Relieved to see that his prayers were answered, Jaime raised his voice up with a smile. “What news do you have? Did you slay the Other?” Brienne shook her head ‘no.’

“Haven’t found him yet… scouts reported seeing him riding a stag in this area.” Dismounting from her horse, Brienne walked the rest of the way up the hill since the road was too steep for her horse. “How did you slay all of these wights?” Jaime threw an odd look at Brienne. He wanted to crack a joke about being aptly named the ‘Kingslayer’ but thought better of it. Glancing down at his feet, Jaime suddenly noticed that the White Walker’s spear had gone missing. _That’s odd… it was just_ —

**_“Fucking Kingslayer!”_ **

Everyone froze. A grumbling foot soldier by the name of Aeron, dressed in his Lannister crimson, picked the ice spear from the ground and tried to shove it into Jaime’s back. Quick thinking men tackled the foot soldier to the ground. Aeron lashed out the other men and went barking mad with hot-headed rage. As he spat and kicked, he bellowed and cursed the men who pinned down his arms and legs

 _“He wants to kill us!_ That ugly beast of his is a _fucking witch!_ She rose from the dead— _we all know it!_ She’s a fucking sorceress! They want to feed this city to the flames—a sacrifice to her red god, and she’s making him do it! _He’s mad!_ He’s as mad as Aerys _fucking_ Targaryen!”

Brienne froze as men struggled to hold down Aeron. Relieved to see Jaime unharmed, Brienne made careful steps forward to see if her husband was injured. Calling out his name, Brienne had to make an effort to get a hold of Jaime's attention. Brienne’s eyebrows creased into worry when Jaime failed to respond. He just stood there in the center of the courtyard with a dazed expression on his face.

 

———————————

 

No matter how many times Brienne called his name, Jaime would not move. He just stood still at the center of the courtyard. He remained silent; all of a sudden, he started to blink a few times rapidly. He watched his wife step closer to him, flashing her a brief, weary smile. Brienne sighed with relief. _He didn’t hurt him._ Jaime’s eyes found hers with an odd look on his face. _He hates getting stitches. He might need some later, but he’ll be fine..._

A small pinpoint of color fell to the snow.

Jaime suddenly felt like he was drunk as his legs began to sway. _I’m so tired…_ He was exhausted; a small wince tried to pull back on his cheeks. He blinked hard. Voices around him started to warp into an odd spiral of noise. _Why is everyone staring at me?_

Another drip of color fell to the ground. The droplet was dark and quickly melted into the snow and ice.

Another droplet fell.

Brienne looked at Jaime with quiet astonishment. It was curious; she didn't understand why a rose had started to bloom at the center of Jaime’s armor.

At first, the weeping petals was slow to unfold. Fat droplets of color began to gather into a warm puddle in the snow. More droplets fell and the puddle grew wider. Confused, Jaime looked down at his feet and searched the ground.  _Someone’s bleeding…_

Brienne’s heart jumped into her throat. She could hear the snow crunch beneath Jaime’s boots. She watched a fog of breath rush past his lips. She saw his green eyes turn round with a strange knowing. He could feel his legs begin to sway. _It’s cold…_ Wondering why he suddenly felt so cold, Jaime dropped down to his knees in confusion. A small noise fell out of his mouth; it was like the soft murmur of a child being tucked into bed.

He never felt the impact of the snow as he fell to his knees. From the corners of his eyes, Jaime watched as his men surrounded him, crowding closer to be at his side. Brienne paled as she ran towards him. _Why is the wench so..._

Jaime’s eyes looked down. Next, to him, half buried in the snow, he saw the White Walker’s spear. It was the same spear that crazed soldier tried to threaten him. _Something’s wrong…_ Jaime had a hard time figuring out what it was. His eyes followed the length of the blade. He realized— _only too late—_ that the tip of the blade had snapped off.

_Why am I so cold?_

In a scramble of fright, Brienne slid down to her knees and shoved the other men away. She ordered them to move aside so that her husband could ‘breathe.’ Propping his back up against her chest, Brienne cradled Jaime’s head in her hands and had both of her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

A deep, insidious cold started to burn inside Jaime's chest. Tucking his chin down, he brought up a shaky hand and dragged his fingers across his chest plate. His eyes glanced at Brienne’s in confusion. _Why is it so cold?_ The cold started to burn inside his chest. Whatever it was, he had to get it out. Jaime started to scratch at his chest plate.  _Brienne will fix it… I know she will. She’ll take care of me._

Instead of shouting out orders or commanding officers for a medic, Brienne stared down at Jaime with wild eyes and a gaping mouth. Jaime suddenly knew where the tip of the ice blade was. Feeling the cold burn deep inside his chest, he suddenly turned frantic. He started to pant. Desperate, he scratched deeper with a clumsy hand over his chest plate while Brienne began to weep and tried her hardest to shush him with a broken voice. Confused, Jaime buried his face into to her warm neck and tried to speak. The only thing Brienne could hear was a slurring voice that mumbled incoherently.

Numb fingers scratched at his plating with a gasping horror. Brienne cried harder as Jaime kept twisting and thrashing his body in her arms. His fingers turned thick as the cold burn deeper inside his chest. And then the burning cold had started to climb up his neck.

 _“Br—_ _Brie… Br—Brienne..."_

Tucking his face deep into the crook of her neck, Brienne closed her eyes and started to whimper. He could hear his wife make a watery plea to all of the gods.

Finally, Jaime felt it; it was a small hole buried at the center of his chest plate. An overwhelming calm suddenly came over him. Feeling oddly at peace, he looked up at the night sky with his green eyes bolted wide open. He looked up at the gray heavens, dusting the world in lazy snowflakes while the soft glow of fires burned from a great distance.

The stinging cold had reached his face. He fell still as Brienne looked down at him. He kept a hand on top of the bloody rose on his chest—a fatal stab wound by the ice-blue spear. The fine blade had broken off deep inside his chest. Squeezing his cold hand, Brienne watched the blood drip from the cracks of his armor and melt into the snow. She lifted her hands up and stroked his golden hair. Jaime’s eyes softened with a frightened look on his face. His wife leaned in as his voice struggled and gagged with a boyish whisper.

_“...cold … ’s cold.”_

Stroking the gold hair away from his face, Brienne’s hand went still when Jaime had let out a deep sigh. He stared up at his wife with his green eyes until finally... the sweet light went out of them. His gaze was sightless and empty. Brienne’s face slowly crumpled as her shoulders trembled with silent tears. Her voice grew tight and started to burn in her throat. A wrenching sob rose up from her mouth. As her tears fell, she slowly shook her head ‘no’ while she pleaded and begged. Hot tears burned at her cheeks as the Lannister men gathered around in mournful vigilance.

Rocking back and forth, keeping her husband wrapped tight in her arms, Brienne kissed her beloved’s forehead and quietly begged him to _'please...please wake up.'_

 

\--------------------------

 

Though the world was ripe with bloodshed and war, all Brienne could see for miles around was the black obsidian of night. Seated on the ground with her dead husband draped over her lap, she numbly stroked Jaime’s hair with blood soaked fingers and made a whimpering sound that begged his name.

_“Jaime… Jaime. Jaime.”_

“None of you wouldn’t listen to me _and now the whole fuckinf city is in flames!_ I tried to warn you, but you didn’t listen! He’s mad! _He’s a fucking madman!”_ Off in the distance, two soldiers fought to keep hold of the rogue soldier who slew the Hand of the King. “He wants to burn this whole city to the ground! _You saw the flames! The wildfire? The damned fool wants us all dead!”_ One soldier cocked back an angry fist and slugged Aeron to keep him quiet.

None of the words Aeron spoke registered with Brienne. All she could hear was the mewling of her tears and the wild slam of her heartbeat. “He doesn't want anyone to take his throne! He’s a Lannister; Lannisters won't stop until they to kill us all!” One man threw his elbow into the raving man’s face. Addam Marbrand was grateful when an  angry soldier knocked Aeron hard enough to keep him silent. “My lady… my lady I beg you. You need to let him go.”

“I can't do it _... I can't._ ” Addam sighed. “Yes, you can. You can _and you will._ ” Shaking her head in fear, Brienne struggled to breathe while a boil of tears swelled at her throat.

“ _I won't leave him—_ ”

“Brienne if you don't let Jaime go and help lead us fight the Others, there will be nothing left for you to hold on to.” Brienne’s face scrunched up with angry tears. “Think of King Tommen, think of Myrcella. Think of the men and women who need you now. _I need you now.”_ Unmoved by his plea, Brienne bowed her head and buried her nose deep into Jaime’s hair.

“Brienne. Brienne _, listen to me!_

Bloodshot eyes gradually met up with Addam's. “Listen. I was there the day Jaime lost you. I never saw a man more broken than he. He could have thrown his life away and followed you into the grave, but he didn't. _He wanted to_ , but he didn't. Everything he did, he did it for you.” Brienne’s face was numb as she fought back tears. “In your name, he carried on.”

“That freak is a monster, a demon witch!” Addam snarled a fiery command to shut the lunatic up. “I don’t care what you all say! That whore wasn’t in a coma; I was there! I saw her body at the camp—and that dumb bitch was colder than stone. A damned sword nearly lobbed her head off— _we all saw it!_ And she came back to life to cast a spell over the Kingslayer. He’s doing her bidding! She turned him mad, and they mean to kill us all and— _ummph!”_

Addam heard enough.

Striding across the courtyard with gritted teeth and a heaving chest, he drew his blade and ran his sword through the bastard’s belly. With a violent shudder and a blood-laced gag, Addam savored to watch Aeron's blood, gore, and bowels splash down to his feet. He wanted the crazed man’s death to feel like a justice, but as he watched the foot soldier drop down to the floor in a boneless heap, all Addam could feel was a mournful hollow and rage bite down in his chest.

 _“The Others—_ they can't touch him.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Brienne when she finally spoke up in a teary voice. Slowly, she was beginning to come around. Addam sighed with relief. Wiping the gore from his hands, he handed his sword off to one of his men and made his way back to Jaime and his wife. “Aye. They won’t touch him. We'll carry him into the sept, my lady. I'll see to him. I promise.” Squatting next to Brienne with a solemn face, he leaned close to hers and made a somber promise. “And when this is all over—Jaime will be waiting for you. I swear it.”

Adam's vow registered inside the fog of a grief-addled mind. Numb fingers slowly unclenched from Jaime’s hair. Her eyes drifted downward towards the bleeding wound at the center of his chest. _That death… That cold death is still lodged inside that beautiful heart…_ She sat there in a daze as the Lannister soldiers gathered around to pick up their fallen lord.

Four men surrounded Jaime, two at each side. They looked down on him and the fresh widow who trembled and shivered with bloodied hands. One man finally spoke up in a tight whisper. “Lift on my count: One. Two. Three— _lift_.”

Brienne loathed to see Jaime being taken from her; she watched his arms and legs fall slack like a rag doll made of sand. She saw his golden hair tumble with streaks of blood. She was horrified to see his face looking so gray and slack. His eyes were still open; they were round, green and blind to all that was known. Weeping again with a quiet sob, Brienne clenched and unclenched her fists; fingers slick with Jaime’s blood. _There’s so much blood... Jaime will need stitches… he hates stitches._

Her thoughts came to a sudden halt when she watched Jaime’s head tip back and sway like a broken tree limb. Letting out a deep gasp, one of the men quickly propped a hand beneath the lord’s head, supporting it as if he were propping up the lolling head of an infant.

“ _Careful! Please. Please, don't hurt him!”_

The soldiers looked down at Brienne with pity in their eyes. Addam squeezed her arms and fought to speak with heartbreak in his voice. “These men won't hurt him, my lady— _I swear it.”_

A fractured sob ripped inside her chest. With legs that shivered and hands that quaked, Addam helped the widow Lannister up to a wobbly stand.

Feeling herself be led by Addam with a hand on her shoulder and another around her waist, the two followed the quiet march down the streets of King’s Landing to find Jaime a place of refuge.

 

——————————-

 

The sound of tears trailed the Lannister procession inside the Great Sept of Baelor.

Struggling with the dead weight of Jaime’s body, everyone was surprised to find that there wasn’t a sparrow to be found inside the hallowed keep. Under the leaden weight of the corpse, Lannister men climbed narrow steps and searched for a room with a sturdy door. After some careful probing, they’d found a place for their lord inside an empty cell within the Maiden’s Tower.

Jaime’s blood had grown tacky on Brienne’s fingertips. Clenched in her hands, Brienne carried Jaime’s sword with mournful devotion. Pallid and weary, she watched the men lay her husband to rest on the cold floor of the drafty vault.

_Is this Jaime? This can’t... it can't be Jaime._

Soldiers parted from the room as Brienne stared down at her husband with bloodshot eyes. _Jaime never looked this small before..._ She rubbed at her tear-swollen face and cringed with genuine bafflement.

_It can’t be him. It just can’t._

Oblivious to his tears, Addam knelt down as his mouth twisted up into a bitter smile. Lowering a timorous hand, Addams’ fingers grazed Jaime’s eyelids and closed them forever. Brienne looked down at her husband with thick shoulders and a stunned look on her face.

_Jaime is a lion... How can anyone have a heart to slay a lion?_

“Ser Addam? What did that man mean when he called me a witch?” Taken aback by the sudden question, Addam hesitated. “What have others said about Jaime and me?” Scratching the back of his head with a cold stone in his gut, Addam tried to mince words until Brienne glared at him with challenging eyes.

“Since your death, there’d been strange _rumors..._ following you—and Ser Jaime.” Brienne nodded her head with grim expectations.  _I’m sure there’ve been other foul rumors since he rescued me from Harrenhall._

“Some accused you of being a Lannister spy—others claimed that you two were fuck… were already, _lovers_. I suspect sometime between your death and your defeat of Robert Strong, not to mention the rumors about you casting no shadow, led some to believe that you were— _uh_ , ahh—"

"—a _witch_?”

Addam looked down at his boots and nodded his head, much to his chagrin. “Aye… a _witch_.” Brienne shook her head with exhausted defeat. “They also said how you were a high priestess to the red god and that you’d cast a spell over Jaime so that he’d fall in love with you.”

A tight screw of humiliation started to turn on Brienne’s lips.

For a moment they stood in the empty vault while the war raged outside the tower walls. Offering up a soft prayer to the Warrior, Addam knelt down to squeeze Jaime’s arm one last time and parted ways with a broken ‘farewell.’ Though the widow was touched by Addams’ fealty, Brienne stared down at her husband with blank eyes and a parted mouth. _This isn’t Jaime..._

Slowly, Addam led Brienne outside of the vault room with lumbering footsteps. As he struggled to latch the heavy door closed, Brienne glanced at Addam with a curious look. In desperate need of assurances, she gripped onto the Fair Maid by the scabbard and its ruby pommel and made a gentle request. “Addam?” Sniffing back tears, Addam was surprised to hear the dead tone in Brienne’s voice. “I need you to guard my husband with this.”

A thick hand offered up the Valyrian sword without an explanation. “My lady?” Brienne’s face was cool with a detachment in her eyes. “If anything happens—should Jaime rise back from the dead…” Fearful words tripped past a hot lump in her throat. “I don’t want the Others to claim him. _If_ —if he needs to die a second death, I’d rather it be one of us instead of a stranger.” Addams’ mouth fell open with sudden insight. “When this is over, I will return to the sept… but I need you to guard Jaime til then and keep him safe.”

Accepting the blade with a firm nod of the head, Brienne returned the cool bow and made her way down the steps of the tower. Although she wanted nothing more than to lie in bed and weep for her husband, Brienne headed down to locate the black cells of the Great Sept. She had question that she needed to asked, and there was only one person there who could answer them.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

The sound of heavy boots clipped down the black cells inside the Sept of Baelor. Gloomy torches lined a narrow pathway down a cold cell block for accused heretics. Marching past men and women she’d once broke bread with, Brienne’s eyes narrowed in on a lone cell door. Huddled in a dark corner, wearing rags and wasted by hunger, Beth Bowers of the Second Brotherhood, looked up from the shadows and felt Brienne glare at her through the cell bars.

 _“You’ve lied to me._ Everything Thoros said was a damned lie. You told me that the Second Brotherhood wanted to end the terror of Gregor Clegane. You said that we needed to stop the rise of Qyburn's army. Both of you told me these things, _and I trusted you._

 _“But that wasn't it...._ You knew what Thoros saw in those flames. He saw the White Walkers, didn’t he? He knew that the Wall would fall… and you told me _nothing_.” Dragging herself up to a wobbly stand, Beth grasped onto the walls of her cell as she made her way closer to the bars.

“Thoros didn't tell us everything he saw. And even if did, would you have believed him?” Brienne’s face coiled up in outrage. “If you knew _then_ what you know _now_ , would you’ve had faith in yourself as Thoros once did?” Brienne failed to respond. “There's a beauty in ignorance, Lady Brienne; you weren't hampered down by the staggering weight of doubt; to you, everything seemed… possible.” Lips curled over large teeth with a withering glare. Disgusted in her blind trust with The Second Brotherhood, Brienne bared her teeth and spat her protest with loathing.

“I should throw you down to the High Sparrow and demand him to give me your head.” Unimpressed, Beth wrapped both arms around her waist and glared at Brienne with apathy. “I’m prepared to die; I no longer fear death. The Gold Cloaks slaughtered my husband shortly after we were captured inside the Red Keep; there is nothing left in this world that keeps me here.”

Brienne’s heart began to splinter as she thought of her own husband lying dead in the tower above. Raw with tears, she bit down on her lower lip and tried hard not to weep. Her resolves began to fail once she bowed her head and closed her eyes.

 _“I can't... I can’t do it._ I don't know how…” Beth made her way closer to the cell door. “How do I lead my forces to end this terror?” Brienne face quivered with doubts. “I can’t do it—I’m not strong… _not without Jaime.”_

Threading her hands around the steel bars, Beth stepped closer and spoke up with a gentle murmur. “Yes, _you_ _can_. The red god blesses the strong… but he favors those who come to him whole.” Brienne scrubbed the fresh tears off her face with an angry hand. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Brienne fought to speak as she gasped for air. “What do you mean?” Beth took a step closer and revealed her truth.

“Good and evil… man and woman; ice and fire… black and white, death and life. Life has never been  _one_ _thing_ or the other, Lady Brienne. Life is a hopeless smudge of gray. But to the White Walkers—they have no grace for everything that falls in between."

" _What are they?"_

"Death incarnate. Theirs is a world shrouded in darkness and cloaked in ice. They worship no gods, they know no lust and they crave no gold. They mean to destoy all mankind to claim this land as a wintry palace of death."

"Why?"

"Because the dead fear the living." Brienne flinched. "It's absurd, but it's true. Humans are strange, impulsive, irrational creatures. They worship multiple gods, they start needless wars, they love the wrong people and they kill and maim for gold and glory. To them, our world is chaos; terrifying and unknown."

"How do we stop them?"

Beth leaned in and looked Brienne square in the eye. "There is no ' _we_.' _You_. Only _you_ can stop the Night King."

All of the color drained from Brienne's face. " _Why_? I don't under—"

"Like I said: the dead fear the living." Beth started to fluster, she was desperate  for Brienne to understand how powerful she truly was. "Brienne, you were slaughtered in combat, but you were ressurected in the light of the red god. When you died, you walked in the valley of the Shadowlands, and now?  You walk without shadow... but still,  _you carry life."_

Brienne's eyes flashed open in shock.

 "You are a noble woman with a tender heart, yet you fight with the strength and honor of a knight. You've known cruelty and hatred, yet you are merciful and you have the courage to love. You have known death but still, your bare life. You were never meant to be one thing or another, Brienne. You were made whole to serve the red god.”

Brienne could hardly believe it. Floundering with her words of denial, Beth continued. 

“It's impossible to understand, _even for me_ , but the red god has blessed you with a child. He is indeed a gift—” Brienne’s voice keened with a smoldering rage.

_“My child is not your savior.”_

Beth’s eyes flashed cold as Brienne balled up a hand into a fist and slammed it against the door with an ugly scowl. “I will not have your faith sink its claws into my child— _my last piece of Jaime.”_ A hard look flashed across the prisoner’s face.

“And where is it written that a child will save us? The babe is not even born; how is that possible?” Brienne’s face screwed up with a dull question. “One day your child will become a steward of peace and a father to the realm, but its not because of a prophecy divined in starlight. Your son will be a man worthy of a thousand song… but that's only because you will teach him, not because of a mystical fate.

“Your son will know strength and justice because of _you,_  and he will learn wisdom and courage because of his _father._ The child has no power _. It's only you, Brienne._ _You_ alonehold all of the power, and it's you alone who can decide what will happen next. The White Walkers think that they are superior because they believe that death is absolute. You are the greatest threat we have against them because you are proof that death is not absolute. You are proof of life indomitable."

Weary by grief, Brienne slowly rested her forehead against the bars and tried to hold back a deep sob. “You are a true knight with a pure heart… but not even the pure of heart are exempt from suffering.” A moment passed. Willing her to find the strength to carry on, Beth took a deep breath and gave her friend a warm command.

“Slay the Night King. Return to the Sept. Give your husband the kiss of life. The child you carry… he will grant you that strength.” With a homely face marred by sorrow, Brienne tried not to frown with hopeful eyes. “But Thoros…” She hesitated beneath a quiet stream of tears. “Thoros said that ‘only death can pay for life.’”

Beth’s face darkened with a cold comfort. “And how many lie dead on the streets of King's Landing? How many more will die soon after?” Exhausted, Brienne closed her eyes and nodded her head in reluctant accord. “I think that the red god’s debt has been paid more than enough, don't you?” Swollen eyes, glossy and red, fluttered open with tear-spiked lashes and a grim look of understanding. Clenching her jaw with tender eyes, Brienne did what she once thought impossible: she dared to imagine a life without Jaime.

 

————————

 

Footfalls echoed through the tower well as hushed soldiers led Brienne down a winding staircase inside the Great Sept of Baelor. As her lips trembled and her legs quivered, Brienne sighed and felt faint with grief. All she wanted was to climb back up the tower and sleep next to Jaime until the end of time.

When they’d reached the landing, Brienne waited at the center of the atrium with a throbbing headache pounding in her skull. Soldiers approached the doors to the sept and were surprised by what they found. The sept doors were locked.

A dozen men struggled from each side of the doors and fought to open it with straining arms. People shouted out commands to find a key while Brienne waited beneath the glass panes of the atrium. Never before had she feel so small or powerless; never before did she ever feel so lifeless or hollow.

Feeling bile start to rise in her throat, Brienne slammed her eyes shut and tried not to think of her husband's corpse. She didn’t want to think of Jaime’s cold skin; how gaunt and pale his face had been. She didn’t want to remember how small her lion had looked in death. Speechless, Brienne raised a trembling hand up to her waist. Inside, she carried the faint spark of a freshly forged life. _Jaime’s son… our son._

Men hacked at the door locks with axes and make quick work to pry it open. Smoothing a doubting hand over her belly, Brienne watched the sept doors creep open with a painful groan. Pungent wildfire seeped in through the cracks while the storm of war raged outside. From that instant, Brienne had closed her eyes and made a choice. Lowering her hand back down, her face harden as she greeted her fears with the resolve of both a woman and a knight.

_I was anointed by a staggering mantle…_

The oak doors finally opened, leaving behind an iron gate that had been latched closed. It was the last barrier that guarded them between death and life.

_…I have known death and death has known me._

Guards screamed for a key to unlatch the gate, their shrill voices carried high to the atrium’s glass ceiling. Brienne was not moved by panicked men; as her eyes lowered with a steely gaze, an unearthly peace began to fill her heart.

_I have loved, and I have been loved in turn._

A sparrow with a bloodied nose was led to the door by a Lannister soldier with a knife pointed at his throat; with a snarl of resentment on his face, the sparrow tossed the keys over to the man waiting at the gate. Fumbling with the large keys only drop them, soldiers shouted at each other while Brienne stayed calm and focused

 _I walk without shadow but I now carry a son—_ _a_ _life. I’ve become a vessel for both darkness and light._

Soldiers began to holler in fear as they looked outside the sept windows.

_Death incarnate will not touch me…_

The Lannister guards struggle with the keys. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.

_...because I’ve walked with death in the Shadowlands and I fear it no more._

Men screamed in warning as a horde of wights started to climb the stairs. A scramble of dusty bones, bound up by weeping strips of flesh prowled up the marble steps over smears of blood and frozen gore.

_I am the daughter of fire, the bride of ice…_

Brienne’s fingers wrapped around the lion’s head pommel until her hand ached and her knuckles turned bloodless.

_...and I shall march down this cursed aisle to greet my other half. My unholy mate._

Brienne raised her head and opened her eyes; they were blue and clear and they’d burned with determination.

_I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow…_

Lannister guards and readied their torches and dragon glass spears as they surrounded Brienne. 

_...because of you, Jaime; you wanted me indomitable._

Taking in a final cleansing breath, Brienne thoughts turned to the memory of weaving a winter rose inside the rings of Jaime’s hauberk. She thought of the first kiss they’d shared as man and wife. She thought of the incredible life that grew inside her.

_I am neither man or a woman…_

At last, the iron gates latched open. A hissing mob of wights ambled up the long stairs of the Great Sept, growing closer with their strength of purpose.

_...I am all mankind._

 

————————

 

A soft wind howled through the arrowslits in the Maiden’s Tower.

Wisps of powdery snow danced along of the walls while glassy ice pellets skipped and rolled across the stone floor. Lying in state with the ice spear lodged deep in his heart, a sickly pool of blood had frozen into a black puddle under Jaime’s armor. As brutal winds swept over his corpse with a mournful bellow, a light dusting of snow began to settle into his golden hair while ice crystals gathered into his beard and over his ashen face. By then his blood and and Brienne's tears had frozen into a mournful plating on his chest plate.

A small rat scampered from a crack in the tower wall. Timid at first, the vermin carefully approached Jaime’s body with an intent to feed. Filthy feet hurried down the length of his arm and approached his bare throat with fluttery whiskers and a sniffing nose. The rat wanted to burrow under his leathers and furs to make a warm nest inside of his armor. As the rat struggled to climb over the lion’s head gorret, a faint tremor startled the rodent, scaring him off with a squeaking cry.

A hard shudder and a deep gasp broke the silence of the tower cell.

Jaime's eyelids snapped wide open in a blinding panic. Dead eyes, once green and lively had been restored to life.

They’d burned bright blue with the haunting glow of frozen starlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always promised you a happy ending.  
> The next chapter is the final chapter.  
> It will be a happy ending. 
> 
>  
> 
> ; )


	22. The Son (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the always darkest before dawn.
> 
>  
> 
> Part I of III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this final chapter into a single posting for you guys... I wanted to, but I couldn't. There are too many things I needed to do; too many thoughts and themes that I wanted to explore before I wrapped things up entirely. I know it sounds like a lame excuse, and I get it if you're pissed off at me (to be frank, I'm pissed off at myself also).
> 
> The thing is I don't want the ending to be rushed. I just can't stomach the thought of having you come this far, only to feel like the ending was just an obligation on my part. It's not. The final chapter of any story should be a capstone that not only marks an end, it should also mark a new beginning. 
> 
> You guys have made a serious investment with your time to read this far and I'm going to respect that. The least I can do for you is write an ending that made this whole experience worth while.
> 
> Whoever you are, wherever you are, I believe you deserve a happy ending. 
> 
> Heh. (insert obligatory 'massage parlor' joke here)

The final chapter to this story is inspired a poem with the same title by Pablo Neruda. You can read it [here](https://www2.cs.arizona.edu/~kece/Personal/Poems/neruda.html) if you're interested.

 

 

 

 

The howl of a ghostly moan swept through the black well of the Maiden Tower.

Addam Marbrand tried his hardest not to think of his old friend, Jaime Lannister, lying dead in the chamber behind him. His arms hung limply at his sides as he stood on guard, _exhausted..._ emotional. Alone, at last, his stoic face flinched with mournful sniffles. Tired of loss, tired of fighting, Addam leaned his armored shoulders against the door while the gales of war thundered outside. Depleted of strength, Addam sighed as he tipped his head against the door and closed his eyes.

Gradually, the air in the tower started to turn cold.

_Deathly cold._

Shivering from a violent chill, Addam gripped the pommel of the Fair Maid with an anxious fist. With eyes still closed, he was unaware that he’d expired a frosty plume of breath. Once the cold air bit his lungs, he slowly opened his eyes while the hairs on his arms stood on end.

_Something was wrong..._

 

\----

  
Preparing herself for battle, Brienne took a deep breath while the Lannister guards struggled to pry open the Sept gates. As her men fought and shouted at each other for help, Brienne's eyes drifted up towards the glass ceiling; she'd hoped to see a lonesome moon or a dazzle of starlight hung above. She had felt a need to see something that was beautiful. Instead, she was greeted with a veil of smoke that glowed like amber amber from the distant fires.

While her guards shouted to _‘hurry up’_ and _‘open the gates,’_ no one heard the whisper of footsteps that trembled in the Hall of Lamps. Just as the guards unbolted the heavy gate, a flock of sparrows slinked from the dark halls and surrounded them. At first, Brienne thought the sparrows were there to join their fight against the wights; instead, the grim men swooped down to bar the doors of the sept.

“What is the meaning of this?” None of the sparrows would answer her. _“I am warning you:_ step aside, now.”

The High Sparrow, along with four parishioners, stood in front of the doors while the remainder kept Lannister guards at bay with crude weapons in hand. Glancing down at his bare feet with an air of superiority, the High Sparrow folded his papery hands into each other with a faint grin and sighed.

_“‘Just as the faithful dog shall bite the hand that feeds him,_

_so shall the loyal servant betray his loving master.’”_

Brienne recognized the High Sparrow’s quote; it was an excerpt from the book of the Father in the _Seven Pointed Star,_ a passage that focused on the tenets of punishment and betrayal. Gradually, Brienne's face darkened with a livid scowl. “If you think of me as a servant _or your dog_ , I’ll see that you’ll—”

The High Sparrow waved his hand with an unimpressed look on his face. “You threaten a high septon in this holy temple?” Brienne clenched her hands into tight fists. “What is your business here? My sparrows have informed me that they watched your men carry a dead body into this Sept.”  

A spoil of upset curdled Brienne’s face. “I am the Hand of the King now. _You shall speak to me with more respect._ Yes; my husband lies dead beneath the Sept of Baelor. I aim to keep his body here until the war has come to an end. Step aside now and let my men pass or there—”

The High Sparrow sighed. “The dead rise and you're entitled to sully our house with your lord husband’s corpse?” Brienne’s expression changed as she blinked in confusion. “N-no... _No_. I’m keeping him safe from the White Walkers. I’m not trying to—” The High Sparrow continued.

“We had abided your lord husband orders when _he_ was the Hand of the King. Against our better judgment, we disinterred those who found their holy rest here. Kings, queens, martyrs, poets— _all of them._ We pried their slumbering bones from their tombs and fed them to the flames to keep this house pure. And now you drag your husband’s rot into this holy temple?”

Brienne’s eyes started to widen in panic.

 

\----

 

Addam swore he could hear scratches behind the cell door. Glancing down, he watched an ugly rat dart from a crack in the door, squeaking past his boots like a bolt of gray lightning. In his wake, the rodent left behind tiny footprints onto the ice-frost ground. Addam paused; he remembered how the floors looked when they carried Jaime’s body up the stairs—the floor had been bare stone.   

Grasping onto the Fair Maid, Addam stepped away from the door and peered down the treacherous stairwell. Drawing the Valyrian steel with a silvery chime, he looked down to see if a White Walker was climbing the narrow steps. Instead, a loud noise boomed within the tower.

_Bang_

Peering down the blackened stairwell, Addam waited for someone to approach. For a moment, all was silence. Another moment passed; still, there was nothing. He sighed in relief. Shaking his head, Addam was tempted to smile; he’d felt paranoid, foolish… childish even.

_Bang_

Frozen like a statue, Addam gasped once he heard the sound again. Slowly turning around, his face turned as white as a sheet once he realized where the noise was coming from: it was coming from _inside_ Jaime’s cell.

_BangBang_ **_BANG_ **

Whoever— _or whatever_ —it was, it was trying to get out.

 

\----

 

Vengeful sparrows leaned closer towards Brienne while Lannister guards raised their weapons to defend the Hand of the King. Unwilling to spill blood in the holy temple, Brienne held up a hand and signaled her men to stand down. “This temple will keep its peace; _I swear it._ If Jaime is restored to life, he will not pose any threat to you or your men.”

The High Sparrow shook his head and sighed; Brienne wanted to squirm under his self-righteous gaze. “And is this a promise, Lady Brienne? You swear that your lord husband— _the Kingslayer_ … an oathbreaker—will respect your vows once he rises from the dead?”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed with disgust; the old man was brazen enough to mock her and her dead husband to her face. Outraged, she stepped forward with tears caught in her throat, but the sparrows closed in, guarding the high septon with spiked cudgels in hand. Lannister men raised their swords up to ward off any threats against their lady. Though her guards could've easily picked off at least a dozen sparrows, they still outnumbered the soldiers three to one. In the wings of the atrium, more sparrows emerged from a wash of shadows, waiting in quiet support of their leader.

With a grandfatherly chuckle, the High Sparrow shook his head with an indulgent smile. “I did warn you, my lady, I said there would be consequences if we saw you with the Second Brotherhood again.”

  


\----

 

**_BANGBANGBANG_ **

Dread morphed into terror as Addam rushed towards Jaime’s cell and grasped onto the rattling door bar. He could hear the oaken door groan while the iron hinges squealed and sighed. His stomach dropped like a lead ball as the cell door _‘thumped’_ and clattered with an inhuman force.

Feeling as helpless as a child, Addam gulped in fear as he watched a thick crack slowly appear at the center of the door.

  


\-----

  


A young soldier cried out as he pointed towards a window facing the streets. “ _The wights are closing in, my lady!”_

The High Sparrow’s eyes locked onto Brienne’s. Unaffected by the guard’s warning, the priggish septon continued. “You’ve reaffirmed your faith in the sight of gods and men. You made a vow in this holy sept to keep true to the seven. You swore to us that you would turn your back on the Second Brotherhood—heretics who worship a false god.” Brienne replied with a sharp tongue. _“And I keep my vows still.”_

The High Sparrow smirked in dry amusement. “So why did my men see you conspiring with members of the Second Brotherhood just now?”

Brienne’s face started to melt with dread.

  


\----

  


**_BANG_ **

**_BANG_ **

A shower of dust trembled from the beams of the tower ceiling. Ornate plaster shuddered into flaky chunks and crumbled to the ground. A deep snap of wood and a groan of hinges started to grow louder and louder with each slam of the door.

Panicked, Addam threw his weight against the door, struggling to keep Jaime locked inside. Feeling the hinges rattle harder and harder, Addam closed his eyes and muttered in quiet desperation. “Please don’t make me do this, Jaime. _Please don’t make me kill you...”_   

  


\----

  


“My lady! The wights! They’re at the door— _they’re at the door!”_

Brienne glanced back at the guard while the High Sparrow laid out his charges. “You’ve desecrated our holy temple with your husband's corpse; you’ve conspired with known apostates in the heretic’s cells. As their leader, no doubt, you gave them orders to restore your husband back to unholy life...” The septon’s voice faltered as a chilling sound filled the sept; it was the scratch of dead fingers clawing at the door. Sickly hisses and haunted moans started to terrify the sparrows close by.

Desperate to be released, Brienne's face flushed red as she pleaded her innocence. “No—I’m not their leader; I did no such thing. Those apostates are the same men and women who brought me back from the dead. I fought for you— _I defended your faith!_ Even if we’re to survive this war, what will the smallfolk do once they find out that you’ve imprisoned me? They will call you a false prophet when they hear of your arrangement with the Second Brotherhood to claim me as your champion!”  

The High Sparrow’s eyes flashed in quiet rage. “And they’ll never hear about it.” The grizzled septon glanced at one of his followers. “Seize her; throw her into the traitor’s cells.” Brienne screamed _‘no’_ as she fought to unsheathe her blade. A Lannister guard gave his order to attack the sparrows. Begging for her men to _‘stand down,’_ Brienne thrashed her weight as four sparrows fought to pin her arms behind her back. Pleased to see her under his control, the High Sparrow smirked with a cutting grin.

“You served us for a time... but now that time has passed.” The High Septon locked eyes onto Brienne as he gave his next order to anyone who’d listen. “Find Ser Jaime’s corpse. When you do, feed his body to the flames.” Fat tears gathered in Brienne's eyes. “When this war is over, we shall hold a trial. Beheading is a mercy for those who kept true to the faith... I think watching you burn in the town square shall be warning for those who—”  A strange hush fell over the atrium.

An annoying _‘click-click,’ ‘click-click’_ sounded above. With a sick clench of dread, Brienne glanced up as tears trailed down her temples and into her ears. Her expression changed as a cold dagger of fear stabbed at her throat. In spite of all of the threats the High Septon laid against her, Brienne thought nothing of it when she locked eyes onto the glass ceiling. Too terrified to move, she spoke again in an astonished whisper.

_“High Holiness…”_

 

\----

  
The thick door was starting to buckle. Addam’s boots struggled for footing as they slid against the icy floor; he was fighting to keep Jaime locked inside his cell. He was afraid that he’d have no choice but to lift the door bar and sentence his friens to a second death. Just then, everything stopped.

The tower became as silent as a crypt.

Relieved, Addam sighed. Long Moments passed before he slowly lifted his back off the door. Tempted to smile, Addam nearly did until a shower of wooden splinters suddenly launched through the door. Thrown off by the force of the impact, Addam was knocked to the floor and thrown into a dark corner. Behind a stone pillar, he watched the cell door shudder in a spray of dust while wood chips clattered to the ground.

Slowly, a hand of gold emerged from the splintered hollow. Addam gasped in horror as he watched a golden hand lift up the door bar from the other side.

  


\----

  


The High Sparrow ignored Brienne’s warning while Lannister guards threw leery glances at the glass dome. Frightened soldiers turned to the Hand of the King with naked fear in their eyes. Brienne kept her eyes locked on the ceiling while a few sparrows dared to look up also. Perturbed, the High Septon gave in and finally glanced up.

It was then he saw it: there were hundreds of dark faces pressed into the glass dome of the ceiling. Yellowed teeth dripped with flesh and blood as more wights piled onto the buckling dome. A sharp _‘pop’_ followed a series of cracks while a spiderweb of fractures bloomed throughout the glass panes. Brienne threw a sharp glance at the High Sparrow with a soft look of pity in her eyes. Before the High Septon had a chance to respond, a shattering roar crashed inside the great sept.

Large pieces of glass showered over sparrows and heretics alike alongside the bodies of the undead. The sound of it was deafening. For Brienne, it was a strange cacophony; it was the eerie marriage of life and death, order and chaos; a terrible beginning and somehow, a rather fitting end.  

Plummeting to the ground like over ripened pieces of fruit, the first wave of wights tumbled down into a putrid heap of rot, slush, and bone. By the time the third wave of wights spilled in, they had landed with no harm. Sparrows cried out in terror, eyes white and round like goose eggs. In fright, they screamed like fearful men, but in death, they whimpered like children, praying to the Mother for the mercy of a quick death.

Lannister soldiers were more prepared for the onslaught than the sparrows; girded in armor and armed with obsidian and good steel, they had better luck in fending off the wights. Cold steel clashed with festering meat and brittle bone. Heads rolled across the sept floor in black sprays of foul gore. Though the soldiers were brave and fought hard, the invasion was tireless, and their defense was in vain.

With the clean sweep of her blade and the primal grunt of battle, Brienne felt untouchable as she lopped off the heads of wights. The men guarding her had fought bravely, but most fell after a long and worthy battle. Slipping onto the waste of Lannister and sparrows alike, Brienne stumbled and nearly lost her footing under the growing pool of blood. Two men dressed in crimson armor grabbed her by the shoulders and quickly led her out of the sept doors.

  


\----

  


Addam was petrified.

Not only had Jaime Lannister returned from dead, but he’d also punched a hole through a door made of oaken planks bound with large studs, thick tar, and iron bands. Rising to knees behind a pillar, Addam felt his skin pucker up in fright as he watched the corpse of his friend slowly lurch out of the cell.

Jaime was almost unrecognizable to him; his skin was as pale as bone and his eyes shined like blue stars. Shuddering with fear, the Fair Maid started to tremble in Addam’s hands. Slowly, Jaime’s dead eyes searched the room until they landed on his friend. For a moment, the two men shared a strange look. Addam was surprised that there wasn’t a soulless gaze locked inside of Jaime’s eyes; instead, his eyes looked sad… almost wounded. Unsure of himself, Addam faltered before he lifted up the blade...

Quick as a snake, Jaime golden hand blocked Addam’s strike; he wrapped his other hand around the ruby pommel of the Fair Maid. Addam winced; he struggled to free both of his hands. Jaime's icy grip had started to burn his Addam’s hands. Dead fingers, pale as ivory, began to tighten over Addam’s hands, threatening to snap his fingers like twigs. As cold death leached into his skin, Addam screamed out in pain before he finally yielded the Fair Maid.

Panting for breath, Addam looked down at hands as he hissed in defeat. His fingers were bright red and swollen while the palm of his hands started to burn from frostbite. Terrified that he might lose his fingers, Addam tucked both hands under his armpits and cringed in agony. He could feel Jaime’s eyes burn with a silent challenge. Terrified, Addam slowly dropped his head with a shudder and lowered his eyes in shame.

A tense moment passed. Jaime threatened hin with a faint growl at the back of his throat. Addam flinched while his breath hitched into a thin gasp. Satisfied, Jaime turned around and plodded down the staircase with the Fair Maid in tow.

Addam listened to Jaime's footsteps for a long time as they staggered down the tower well. Once he could hear him no longer, Addam collapsed onto the stairs as his hands thawed and blood blisters started to form on his palms. Feeling confused—both terrified and relieved—Addam began to weep once he could hear Jaime no more.

  


\----

  


It was a bitter defeat for Brienne; although she'd fought bravely, it always grieved her to turn her back on a fight.

Stumbling down the prominent staircase of the Great Sept, Brienne was startled by the sight of empty streets until she threw her eyes over her shoulder. It wasn’t just a few hundred wights that attacked the Great Sept of Baelor; a battalion made of rotting flesh swarmed the temple like maggots feasting on a corpse. As the dead punched holes into the stained glass windows, Brienne’s heart clenched tight in her chest. She thought of Jaime’s body locked away, cold and alone in the lonely Maiden Tower.  

_Jaime. I know you can hear me..._

The two soldiers who led Brienne outside found stray horses for them to ride on. She was offered the reins of a snowy white mount that gleamed with its ornate barding; it was the shining brass plate of the City Watch. The horse was dressed in a gleaming chanfron that bore a sunburst rondel that glittered like sunlight. Brienne clambered onto her gaudy mount with trembling fingers and threw a longing glance towards the Maiden Tower.

_...you’re surrounded by darkness and you know my tears. You sleep in a land where every shadow seems to breathe. You now rest in the Shadowlands, my love..._

A soldier mounted next to Brienne waited for her orders. Scanning the skyline of King’s Landing, the Hand of the King searched the hills and boroughs of the capital. To her left she saw a patch of haze drifting closer to the Street of Sisters; to her right, she saw a patch of mist rolling over the Red Keep. When she turned around, she saw it; a great storm of fog had threatened to envelop Visenya’s Hill. Brienne knew that’s where she’d find the Night King.

_Jaime… you now rest in a valley that’s divided between seven heavens and seven hells. I’ve walked those lands before. I know your fears, but this is not your final resting place..._

_Wait for me, my love._

“There,” Brienne pointed her finger towards Visenya’s Hill and gave her order in a stony voice, “we can avoid the Street of Steel by cutting through Copper Alley. It’ll be our quickest route towards the hill.” Brienne’s horse sniffed the air, grumbling at the stench of wildfire as it snapped its tail against the pummeling snowflakes.

With a soft kick of her heel, Brienne led her guards up a dark ride towards Visenya's Hill. Anxious to see the war come to an end, Brienne led her horse from a trot into a canter while the clobber of hooves shattered the hush of empty streets. Swallowing back hot tears, Brienne gritted her teeth and kicked her heel. She rode her mount like a demon with a monstrous look on her face. She felt her stomach turn with sloshes of acid when her thoughts started to drift towards the Night King.

_Come what may, whether it’ll be his death or mine… I will be reunited with Jaime, tonight...._

  


\--------------------------

  
  


Though Brienne suffered to think of Jaime’s body locked inside the Maiden Tower, it was the memories of what followed _after_ death that left her heart to ache without measure. Indeed, Brienne understood Jaime fears then; she could conceive of his boundless confusion, his hopeless fears, his incalculable pain. She had understood all that awaited him on the other side...

 

 

Upon the moment of her death, Brienne struggled to breathe in a new life.

Her body had regained consciousness underwater. She looked around; she had been floating under a soft beam of pewter gray light. Struggling for breath, she felt her lungs swell up and burn. As the current rolled her body into a wave, she felt her body grow limp as she was tossed around like glass bottle in a roaring surf. She was a tangle of weak arms and rubbery legs. Soon after she was belched onto a rocky shore; she had washed up inside of a vaulted cave. She was stranded in a bleak place that the pious septons warned her of and the scolding septas had threatened her with. In death Brienne's soul had washed up on the shores of the Shadowlands.

When the waves receded, the Maid gasped for breath; memories of her death flashed across her mind as she slapped a hand over her neck. As the waves lapped at her shins, she crawled out of the rocky surf and wretched up a lungful of burning saltwater.

Wearing nothing but traces of foam whipped up by the sea, Brienne’s legs staggered—tripping and falling—across the dark terrain. It was strange; the black surf looked familiar to her, but the memories of her former life were slow to reclaim, like trying to capture smoke in a glass jar. Slowly it dawned on her. _This is my place…_ Indeed, it was her place; it was a cave she used to play in as a child. It was a cave tucked beneath the white cliffs of Evenfall.  

Gagging for air, Brienne coughed and wheezed until she wretched some more. Her arms and legs trembled, shuddering and flaccid. The jagged rocks made her stumble, slicing at her bare feet like dull knives; in pain, she collapsed against a rock as she fought for her next breath.

Hunched over next to a kelp-strewn boulder, Brienne smoothed a hand over her heart as the droning surf crashed around her. In the hailing winds, she could hear a faint noise. At first, it was only a whisper. It was the sound of tears; _Jaime's tears._ Feeling her heart break into a fine shatter of grief, Brienne wept as she heard Jaime's confession trembled inside a ghostly echo:

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

She listened with blurry eyes. Shuddering like a wounded animal, Brienne hugged her knees to her bare chest and wept at the finality of her life. She mourned for a love she’d always wanted but never knew. Before she could dwell in her sorrows, a faint snarl brought her weeping to a chilling silence. Splashing in from the rolling surf, she saw glowing blue eyes appear from the black walls of the grotto. An albino direwolf with three heads emerged from the shadows. Trotting towards her at a steady pace, the wolf bared its translucent teeth and launched itself at her in a rabid charge.

There was no time to think; she could only panic. Sliding off the boulder, Brienne ran deeper into the bowels of the dark cave. As the wolf gained in on her, she could feel the huff of breath lick the backs of her thighs. Claws tore into the bend of her knees like fine razors. The wolf jumped onto her, knocking her to the floor while it savaged her back. The nails scratched at her breasts; they sliced into her stomach and tore at her face. As the wolf fed upon her, Brienne could see the three heads fighting with each other. The wolf's head on the left gorged on her flesh with an intense rage; the one on the right was tenderhearted and tried to salve her wounds with gentle licks; the one at the center was the one that was most brutal—the bitch tore into Brienne’s flesh with a blind, stony wrath.  

Suddenly, the wolves stopped feeding on her. Something at a distance had caught their attention. Long ropes of blood dripped from their snarling muzzles while Brienne panted and trembled with shock. A loud noise clattered from the belly of the cave. Snapping and growing in unison, the three-headed direwolf vaulted over Brienne and raced towards the mysterious sound. The cave started to fill with the echo of deafening barks. Though she was in pain, Brienne rolled onto her side to see what the direwolf was fighting. In the heart of darkness, she could see nothing; she could only hear a chorus of barks before a flash of steel _‘clanged’_ against a rock. The direwolf yelped and whimpered before it whined into a slow, uneasy silence.      

From the inky gloom of night, she saw him. At first, she could see only a blue light flicker; it wavered like a candle flame shivering in a draft. The footsteps grew louder. Finally, she saw him. It was Jaime, fully dressed in his Kingsguard attire. His cloak and armor weren't the pristine white she once saw him in. Instead of white plating, his armor was as black as a moonless night. Instead of the crimson ripples pounded into his blade, Brienne saw that the ripples on his sword were made of blue light.

Striding across the shallow pools of the cave with cold eyes and a blank face, Brienne tucked her face into her arms and waited for death. Her naked form was coiled up into a tight ball of shame. When his footsteps came to a halt, Brienne felt Jaime’s eyes bore into her. Prepared for his insults, bracing herself for cruelty or the fall of his sword, she felt her ribs shudder with violent chills. She didn’t want him to see her cry. Without warning, Jaime unpinned the dark cloak from his shoulders and draped it over her body.

The cloak was as black as pitch, but the weave was as soft as grace. Tucking the wrap closer to her body, Brienne's trembling ceased when she opened her eyes. Lying beside her on the cave floor was Jaime. As their eyes met, he quirked his cheek to the side with a smile. “ _Brienne._  Wench. It’s time to wake up.” Rolling her bloody face into the cave floor, Brienne closed her eyes and wept; she was tired of fighting. “... _can’t... I can't.”_

For a long while, Jaime stroked back the blood-drenched hair off the Maid's face. Sharp winces of pain eventually carried her off into the arms of a dreamless of sleep. Hours passed— _maybe it was minute_ s. Finally, she woke to the feel of Jaime’s breath teasing her ear. “ _Wench_ . It’s time to get up.” A hailstorm of aches battered her body. “Can’t… _it hurts.”_ Jaime smiled deep into her ear; his warm breath reminded her of the lazy summers she used to spend lounging in the sun. “But you’re healing…” Confused, Brienne opened her eyes and looked down at her hands.

Indeed, she was healing; she watched all of her lacerations start to mend before her eyes. When she lifted up his cloak, she could see that the black cowl was drinking in her blood. In its wake, her skin puckered up with scars made of white lines; scars that were as thin and pale like starlight. Glancing up at him in disbelief, Jaime quietly helped her back up to her feet. Wobbling on shaky legs, Brienne glimpsed up at Jaime with a tremulous smile. “I was certain that you were going to hurt me.”

Jaime smiled in spite of the painful catch to his voice. “I was certain that you’d do the same.”

Wrapping the cloak around her neck, Brienne turned to Jaime with a baffled look on her face; she’d felt strong, pure and whole. A slam of waves thrashed outside while bright cracks of lightning filled the sky. The high tide was flooding in. Foamy sea waters rushed through the mouth of the cave; the rock they stood on offered them some protection, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.

A warm presence started to sidle up close behind; it was Jaime. As she watched the storm waters rush into the cave, she felt him drape a protective arm across her chest. Brienne looked down; Jaime’s deformed arm was resting over her heart. Grateful to have him near, she reached up to grab ahold of the puckered end of his wrist. The cold winds had started to rise. Tugging on his arm so he could stand even closer, Jaime’s lips grazed her bare neck as he breathed out his next words. “They’ve found us.” With that, the waves inside of the cave started to roll into a groaning slush of ice. The seawater was beginning to freeze. Intrigued, Brienne stepped away from Jaime's arm and inched towards the ledge of the rock.

As she stepped forward, she felt the black cloak slip out of her hands before it made a fluid slide down her shoulders.  Beneath the Kingsguard cloak, Brienne was no long wounded or naked; she was dressed in armor. It was not the blue plate that matched her stunning eyes; instead, the armor was crimson red with a fiery gold inlay. She was now clothed in the immense power of a Lannister name.  

Brienne watched the saltwater churn down to a halt before cracking into a solid plain of ice. The cave burned with cold air, but the deathly chill did not touch them. “Are their bears down here? Dragons…?” Brienne shook his head ‘no.’ “No… something worse.” ... _our doom._ With that, she felt something cool and heavy placed into her hand. “My lady. Your sword.” Brienne looked down; at last, she was reunited with her beloved Oathkeeper. As she marveled at her sword, Jaime stepped away so she could have some room to wield her. “Please don’t leave me.”

Jaime chuffed his amusement into her hair. “I was about to ask you the same.”

Strong hands grasped onto the pommel of Oathkeeper while a storm of prayers filled the cave. She could hear Poddrick and her father pray and weep; she could hear the unexpected prayers of both strangers and friends.The prayers that’d hurt her the most were those belonging to Jaime. She could hear him pray the blessing of the dead alongside the septon during her wake. As the service prayers faded into a distant echo, Jaime's prayers continued with the shudder of grief. She listened to him bargain and plead for the gods to protect her; how he begged them to grant her comfort and peace on the other side.

And he wept.

By all the gods, how he wept for her.

Stunned, Brienne turned to Jaime with a slow dawn of understanding. “You—you _loved_ me.”

Jaime’s voice was stark with sincerity. “I love you still.”

A thick fog rolled into the mouth cave. Glancing over her shoulders, Brienne watched Jaime as he pinned his black cloak to her shoulders. “You honor me, ser.” From a distance, she could see the blue eyes of a white walker narrow in on them both. Ripples of red flames flickered to life on her blade. With the ignition of her swor, the blue flames on Jaime’s sword started to burn even brighter.

“It's only fitting. I used to think that honor was dead until I finally met you.”

  


\-------------------------

  


By the time Jaime made his way down the stairs, the atrium of the sept was a wash of blood. The ruins of men and wights were scattered across the floor while piles of dusty bones smoldered with flames inside the Hall of Lamps. Settled at the landing of the stairs, Jaime plunged the whole sept into darkness with his black shadow. The wights were distracted as they were busy snuffing out the last vapors of life. An instant hush fell over them; they paused and slowly turning around.

Blue eyes pierced the blackest reaches of the Sept; once the wights saw him, they hissed in fear while lowering their eyes with shivering hands and faltering heads. As he made his way closer towards the door, he watched the wights clear a path for him as they trembled in fear. Jaime paused and turned around; something had caught his eye: he’d found the scattered pieces of crimson armor— _Lannister armor_ —drenched with blood. A monstrous growl curled from the back of his throat while cold air seethed past his dead lips.

Incensed, Jaime glared at the wights in a silent fury; he was watching, waiting. None of the wights would dare challenge him; instead, they slowly dropped to their knees and bowed their rotted heads. Making themselves appear as small as possible, Jaime’s boots clipped past them over shards of glass and sticky pools of blood. A small whimper near the doors was heard. It was the High Sparrow’s.

The lower half of his body was missing; all that remained was a slush of pink and blood where his legs should have been. His wrinkled skin was ashen; his grandfatherly eyes had been squashed into white curds and red tears. As Jaime tried to walk past, the High Sparrow blindly snatched at his heel and wept, begging for his mercy.

_“P-please… k-Kill, kill me…”_

Jaime did not move; he did not blink, and he did not speak. He briefly glanced at the High Sparrow over his shoulder; he looked down at him with indifference. With nothing more than a sigh, Jaime turned his head and walked away, stepping over the grounded sparrow as if he was just another corpse. Desperate, the High Sparrow sobbed and cried out for death. If Jaime heard him, he did not show it. Instead, he walked through the open doors and looked outside. From a great distance away, he could see a tidal of fog swallow up Visenya’s Hill.

From the moment Jaime walked out of the Great Sept of Baelor, all of the wights slowly raised up their heads. Still cowering with fear, they started to hiss at his back once they fell out of his cold shadow.  

  


\----

  


Riding down the streets of Copper Alley, Brienne fought alongside her guards as they battled the roaming dead. It felt like the wights bled from every corner: they spilled from the narrow alleyways, they crept down the walls like molting tarantulas, and they seemed to drain from the sewer grates.

They’d came to a sudden halt as they watched a building collapse into a fiery ruin, blocking the alley entirely. Commanding her mare to a halt, Brienne struggled to find another pathway as her guards kept their vigil over her. She had felt grieved once she realized that the collapsed building had been an orphanage. Through the roaring flames, she could see blackened corpses twisting into cinders and bone; they were the bodies of little children.

Brienne wanted nothing more than to harden her heart against the ghastly sight. As she watched the little bodies curl up tight in the flames, her thoughts suddenly turned to a battle she once fought at the Crossroads Inn. She thought of all of the helpless orphans she wanted to save but couldn’t. She thought of Catelyn Stark; she thought of Lady Stoneheart. With a _‘pop’_ of lumber and a crackle of flames, Brienne was stunned into silence when a sudden vision manifested before her in the flames; the very sight of it took her breath away… Shocked by all that she saw, Brienne gasped with the threat of tears. Her thoughts suddenly turned to her unborn child.

Feeling helpless, Brienne turned to her guards in a desperate, silent plea. Instead of finding their sympathies, she saw terror and horror instead.The guards weren't thinking of the orphans or the terrible fire that blocked their way. Instead, their eyes were set on the ground. They had realized that the rumors were true: indeed, the Lady of Casterly Rock did not cast a shadow.  

Both of their eyes were pointed at the ground, fixated on the void where Brienne’s shadows should have been. Suddenly, they glanced up; the guards were stricken, horrified; not of the fire, not of the war nor the wights spilling from every corner… they were frightened of _her._ Brienne’s countenance dissolved with a soft look of betrayal. _After all that’s happened… after all they’ve seen, they’re terrified of me still?_

Feeling both wounded and dazed, Brienne felt herself grow numb once the guards realized what they’d done. Sputtering for words, they tried to apologize, but Brienne wouldn’t listen. Her blank face hardened into a foul look while her thick lips pulled back into a hideous scowl. _Let the Others take you then..._ Smacking a heel into the horse’s side, Brienne gave a sharp cry and led her mare into a frenzied gallop. Bolting past the guards, she ignored their cries as she rode on in a wild blaze of anger.

Racing past fires that threatened to burn down the entire city, Brienne felt tears dry on her cheeks as her mount dashed over the scorched rubble. Sick with grief, Brienne failed to look ahead when her horse suddenly reared up onto its hind legs. Grappling with the reigns, she'd realized—only too late—why her mount had started to panic; the wights were closing in on her. _They may try to take me, but I’m going to drag down every last one of them to hell with me..._ Raising Oathkeeper above her head, Brienne made her first swing as the wights closed in on her horse.

The white horse whinnied and staggered as the wights tore at its brass croupier and ripped open its soft belly. Brienne was toppled over. Oathkeeper clattered onto the ground in a warm pool of horse blood. Feeling as though her skin was burning with fire, Brienne rolled to a stand and snatched her blade up while the wights fought over the screaming mare. Cowered behind the mare’s flank, Brienne was horrified to watch the wights sink their reedy fingers into the horse, ripping through its coarse hair and stringy muscle. Immediately, one of the wights locked dead eyes onto Brienne…

...but all he did was look through her. He didn’t lay a hand on her.

When the horse finally died, the wights slowly got up and carried on in their mindless shuffle. Rising to a jittery stand, shaking, trembling in confusion, Brienne gasped as she felt dead arms and rotted faces brushed past her hunched shoulders. She remained still as the lumbering dead staggered on, dead eyes fixed ahead but seeing nothing.

Gradually, Brienne realized why the wights didn’t see her; _she wasn't a threat to them_ ... she was neither an enemy or opponent. A sick feeling roiled inside of her belly; she then remembered Beth’s warning inside the heretic’s cells: _the dead only feared the living._

Thunderstruck by the conclusion, Brienne felt something heavy sink deep inside her chest. In spite of her heartbeat, in spite of her breath and blood and the child she carried inside, she became disheartened once she realized that the wights considered her as one of their own. _When Thoros brought me back from the dead, he called it the kiss of life... but it feels as though I’ve blessed and cursed, all with the same breath_. As the wights ambled on, shuffling past her as if she were just an impediment, Brienne felt her heart grow dead as she closed her eyes.  

With a halted step forward, Brienne looked around her shoulders with both confusion and heartbreak. _For all my life, people have mocked me. They could only see me as a monster, a freak... a hideous beast of a woman._ Finger trembled as Brienne cautiously sheathed her blade.

_If that’s all they see then that's who the Night King shall greet..._

  


\----  


 

The fire from the orphanage had quickly spread to the other buildings surrounding Copper Alley. Men and women tried to escape the flames, leaping off of steep rooftops and narrow window sills while praying that their feet would land on something soft. Children’s faces, greasy with ash, stared up at the flames of their former homes and waited for parents that would never show.

A young man with a ragged cough gagged for air as he tried to comfort his baby sister, wailing like a stuck pig in his arms. The boy was no older than twelve, and he was close to tears also as he searched for their father in the flaming ruins. His father was a cripple and was slow to catch up; from a distance, he promised his son that he’d follow them close behind. As he peered into the blazing inferno, the lad was relieved when he found a lone man standing at the end of an alley. “Father? _Father!”_

The lone man slowly turned around. Gradually the boy realized that the man wasn’t his father. His father didn’t have ghostly blue eyes.

Surrounded by flames and wights, the boy had nowhere to run. He tucked his baby sister close to his chest and tried to cover her face; he didn’t want her to see the monster that would end their lives. He tried to hush her in desperation as he silently wept, whispering a promise that “it’ll all be over soon.” The strange man with blue eyes step out of the shadows and into the light. It was Jaime Lannister.

The girl’s wailing started to rise into a fever pitch. “It’s alright,” the boy said with a warble to his voice; he needed to be brave for his little sister, “It’s alright… it’ll all be over soon.” By then his voice transformed into a blubber of tears. The boy closed his eyes and prayed to the Father; the only thing he could pray for was a merciful death for his sister. Suddenly, the wailing toddler grew quiet; the crisp sound of hooves started to flood the alleyway.

A cold chill ruffled the boy when he felt the shoulder of a horse brush past him. The boy stopped breathing when he looked down; he followed a long sweep of innards trailing behind the white mare, dangling into a wet slop from the horse’s ribcage. Rosey pink entrails dragged behind in a long train of blood and viscera. The boy’s eyes turned full; he could see the dead heart of the horse through a bloody hole behind a slip of liver. He watched Jaime raise a golden hand, and the dead horse came to a halt by his side.

Neither the boy or girl could make a sound as Jaime sprang off the ground and climbed onto his mount. The mare was snowy white except for the stain of blood saturating her coat. The horse wore armor, and it flashed like gold in the firelight; the boy recognized it as the ornamental dress of the City Watch. The chanfron gleamed with a sunburst rondel mounted between the eyes; the segmented plates guarding the horse’s neck and chest shone bright with a radiant luster. For half a heartbeat the boy thought the man seated on his horse looked like a golden king rather than a blue eyed demon.

As brother and sister looked on in quiet astonishment, Jaime’s blue eyes lingered over them with a strange air of melancholy. Offering them a soft nod of his head, he backed the horse into a slow turn before riding from the alleyway in a canter. The boy followed Jaime out of the alleyway from a safe distance while his little sister looked on with silent intrigue. He watched the dead man drive his gutted horse across a battlefield of hellfire, bucking over piles of scorched timber and forging a new path towards the crown of Visenya’s Hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II is soon. That's all I'm going to promise...


	23. The Son (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To sleep, perchance to dream...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II of III

Though Brienne was fortunate to survive her brush against the wights, she couldn't help but wonder: was it providence or damnation that preserved her?

As she continued her walk amongst the dead—still unseen, unknown—she was horrified to witness the world through _their_ eyes. The wights did not slaughter for gold or glory; they didn't kill for religious dogma, parcels of land or false titles. In the throes of a blind stupor, the wights slaughtered for only one reason — they _hated_ life.

Inside the ghoulish procession, Brienne watched the soldiers of summer fall like autumn leaves, just as Lady Catelyn once promised. Young soldiers fell in droves; some without arms, some without legs, some without heads. She heard grown men curse and scream as the wights snapped of their limbs like a child ripping wings off a dragonfly. She felt her heart skip a beat when she saw a boy—no bigger than Podrick—lying in a pool of his blood. The lad was frail and malnourished with the wide eyes of an innocent. It was obvious that he had been in shock; Brienne watched the poor thing grasp onto his innards as they spilled from his gut. He tried to call for an adult to help but he died of blood loss soon after.   

All throughout her ponderous trek, Brienne’s thoughts twisted inside a hellspin of doubt: _What’s happening? Where are we going?_ Gasping for breath in a sea of rotting flesh, an intrusive thought started to weigh down on her heart: _If I was restored to life without shadow… was I destined to serve the unholy night?_ As the wights made their final turn on the Street of Steel, Brienne was stricken by what she saw; everywhere she turned, she was drowning in a churning sea of wights.

Gray, shrunken faces flooded the streets with their dreadful groans and sprays of blood frozen to their skin. Paralyzed with fear, Brienne lingered in the road with a ghastly look on her face.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw a blink of light flash from the top of Visenya’s Hill; it was the hypnotic glare of shining armor. Though Brienne couldn't see his face, she knew who it was; she’d first seen him riding across the frozen Blackwater on a dead mount. It was one of the White Walkers, but now he was crowned in a glittering laurel made of ice. Brienne slowly realized that the wights had gathered on the hill by order of their king.

A scream blasted from the arctic skies.

In perfect synchrony, all of the wights peered up at the clouds as one. The hush was deafening as their clouded eyes followed a black mass slicing into a canopy of fog. The soaring target had withered into a downward draft before it rose again in perfect majesty. Brienne squinted up at the sky with confusion. _It almost looks like a wing…_ Suddenly, a column made of golden light — as bright as the sun — streaked across the black sky. Night briefly transformed into day as a vibrant trumpet of fire blazed across the snowy horizon. Massive wings pulsed with a thick, leathery _‘flap’_ while a shower of glowing embers rained down upon King’s Landing.

Brienne gaped at the skies and felt both terror and relief course through her. As the horned beast slipped through the dense clouds, her wide eyes followed the monster as it made lazy circles over the capital, bellowing out with its screaming call to war. As fat tears blurred her vision, Brienne was forced to choke back on a small laugh; indeed, the beast was a terrible fright, but its beauty was undeniable. From a distance she could hear people laugh and cheer on the rooftops, crying out with joy as the dragon made its descent to purify the realm.

Stationed on the hill like a proud conqueror, the Night King raised a crystal sword and pointed it towards the gliding demon. Speaking in a dead tongue, the luminous blade glowed with a piercing blue light as he wailed out a cry—his voice was a dark squall knotted inside of a frothy roar. The Night King gave his order, and all of the wights obeyed with a single, unified consciousness. Once the dragon found a place to land, the wights raced down the hill in a falling cascade of faces.

Alone at last on the charred streets with no one there to challenge her, Brienne closed her eyes with a cleansing breath.

A revolution made of fire was close at hand.

 

\------

 

Addam gasped as he made his way down towards the Sept’s atrium. Through a shattered window he’d caught a brief glimpse of Jaime; he was climbing the Street of Steel, alone. Glancing over the staircase, Addam discovered the horror that laid waste to his men. By then, all that was left were severed limbs that tried to move on their own; all of the wights had vacated the Sept by then.

_“Where is he?”_

Men and women of the Second Brotherhood trailed close behind on the staircase; Addam released them from the heretics cells shortly after his encounter with Jaime. Wincing from the sting of frostbite, Addam pointed towards a distant street with a hand wrapped in gauze. “There. He’s headed towards Copper Alley.”

Members of the Second Brotherhood rumbled down the stairs; they were men and women who were half starved and withered. In spite of this, they gathered up weapons that were abandoned and armed themselves with the scattered pieces of Lannister armor. The Brotherhood was preparing to chase after Jaime.

 

\----

 

The dragon screamed and lashed its tail against the throng of wights; the high-pitched screech rattled across stony streets and reverberated over the desolate hills. As the beast swerved its long neck with a serpentine grace, Brienne observed the flaming carnage below with a disjointed air of calm—it was a comfort for her to know that the battle between the dragon and wights was far from the Sept and Jaime's remains.

A curious feeling settled over Brienne; she lowered her eyes once she felt her stomach drop down, slow and heavy with a painful lurch. She could _feel_ someone’s eyes watching her. Slowly, she turned around; the Night King was standing close by. Once his eyes settled onto hers, she felt her skin start to crawl with a deep chill.

The Night King's flesh was almost translucent, with muscles that seemed to glow like a snowy field under a moonlit night. The ice laurel gleamed with a haunting beauty; each one of the spears adorning his head appeared to glow and fade with the slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Boney fingers, long and craggy, stretched over the hilt of his crystal longsword. Brienne could hear each one of his fingers crackle and _‘pop’_ like brittle twigs.

Thoughts of dragons and wights began to shudder into a distant memory once Brienne’s mouth darkened into a murderous scowl. Thick lips slowly curled over teeth as her brow crumpled up into a menacing glare. The Night King met her silent call with a wheezing snicker that closely resembled a death rattle. Driven by a cold by fury, Brienne rolled her shoulders back and dropped her chin to her chest. A soft growl burned from the back of her throat while hot puffs of breath seeped past her teeth. As her boots marched over the frozen crush of snow and ice, a trill of steel filled the air as she unleashed Oathkeeper with a snarl of contempt. The Night King waited patiently for her, meeting her gaze with a curious smile.

Little did he know, Brienne’s whole life had prepared her for this final moment…

 

\----   

 

The dragon groaned as wights scaled up its rigged back by the hundreds. Thrashing its great head from side to side, desperate to shake off the swarming dead, the great beast shivered in rage as the wights tore through its wings and ripped massive holes into its soft, translucent membrane.

In spite of the horror and bloodshed, Beth Bowers gaped at the dragon from a distance in breathless awe. Molten flames blasted down the streets, rolling into sparking waves of hellfire as thousands more wights disintegrated into soot and ash. Once the fire had settled, it left behind a smoky road littered with charred bones and cooked meat. White ash and glowing embers started to freeze under a swelling bloom of frost. Everywhere he stepped, the advancing White Walker left a crust of ice in his wake.

The White Walker was there to claim the dragon as his mount.

“We need to hurry. _Now!”_ Addam Marbrand reached over to grab Beth’s hand; annoyed by him, she stepped away and threw him a dirty look. _“Come on!”_  She wouldn't move.

Prepared to dislocate her arm, Addam grunted as he tugged until Beth glared back at him. _“What? Why?_ What’s the — ” Addam silenced her by pointing a blistered finger towards the Dragonpit. “See that pit? We’ve collected over _ten thousand_ jars of wildfire below the tunnels of King’s Landing. Those jars were harvested into barrels and stored into four arsenals: one at the King’s Gate, one near the River Gate, one beneath Cobbler’s Square and one inside the Dragonpit.” Beth’s face fell with instant clarity.  

“If the dragon wanders any closer to that pit…” Memories of Harrenhal flashed before Addam’s eyes; he could recall the stories he heard as a child about the infamous Fall of Harrenhal. Now, the cursed hall was nothing more but a melted ruin after its battle with Balerion, the Black Dread. The great beast had rained down a fire so hot, it had transformed the stone walls into a wilting monolith; bent over and misshapen like weeping slabs of wax.

A high squeal gargled in a wounded roar as the dragon’s breath scorched thousands of more wights. After a while, the monster staggered closer to the mouth of the Dragonpit. Unwilling to linger any longer, Addam chased after the Brotherhood in a scramble of legs over the icy streets of Visenya’s Hill. With a flush of panic, Beth followed his example soon after.

 

\----

 

  
Brienne strode forward with clipped, determined steps and a jutted chin. Unimpressed by her demeanor, the Night King lowered the crystalline sword and swept a thin line into the snow. With a soft _‘tap_ ’ of his bright blade, a wall of fire erupted from the snowy ground.

A dark sneer riddled Brienne's cheek. Her chest heaved with a mounting wrath. Incensed, she stalked the flaming border like a snarling wolf, circling the ring of fire with a threatening glare pointed towards the king. She fought hard to keep her cool while searching for a way in. Feeling desperate, Brienne climbed over a toppled pillar so she could leap from the ledge of a collapsed roof. Sprinting across the icy tiles and glowing embers, she slipped across a sheet of ice and tumbled into the fighting yard with bruised ribs and a grunt of pain.

Rolling into a clumsy stand, Brienne readied her sword with a sharp wince on her face. She was surprised that the Night King wouldn't greet her eyes; instead, they were fixed on her waistline. Growling with pointed teeth, he raised his sword—a long rapier made of crystal blue ice—and pointed it towards Brienne’s belly. The king of death was startled— _offended;_ a _woman_ touched by death had the power to bear new life.

A slow, wicked grin peeled across Brienne’s face. _He fears me…_   

 

\------

 

Hundreds of wights clambered over the dragon's neck while hundreds more slipped and fell off its glossy scales. Tossing its head from side to side, the dragon fought hard to shake off the virulent dead. The impatient White Walker hissed out an order; soon after, the wights pried up the razor sharp scales to rip open the hot flesh tucked below. Proud wings that once blotted out the sun now dripped down like wet ribbons made of sad, bloody globules.

Shrieking with hot flashes of fire, the dragon hung its head as the wights struggled to pry open its eyelids. The dead were successful; they quickly yanked out fist fulls of pulpy yellow tissue, transforming the dragon’s eyes into weeping mounds of golden slush. Although the great beast was close to its death, it rose to a wobbly stand, making a blinding stumble towards the Dragonpit. In its destructive wake, thousands of wights came tumbling after.

Inevitably, the dragon teetered on the mouth of the Dragonpit. Growing faint, the dying beast reared up on its hind legs. With a valiant roar, the dragon spewed molten flames towards the ground, vaporizing thousand more wights inside a flashbang of heat and fire.

 

\----

 

A violent clap of light thundered over the capital.

Towers of green flames erupted into a blinding flash as the impact tremors rolled across the city towards Visenya’s Hill. Large cracks splintered down the narrow streets of Flea Bottom. Brienne watched it all in the reflective glaze of the Night King’s armor. At a distance, she could hear faint screams of terror as the ground surrounding the Dragonpit collapsed into a fiery sinkhole. She saw homes and taverns, stables and inns fall into the growing crater as the clover flames mushroomed into a towering plume of death.

Brienne’s followed the Night King around the yard with the aid of the green smoke reflecting off his chest plate, but as soon as he circled the grounds, he was rendered almost invisible at another angle. Disguised by the reflection of snowfall, flames, and rubble, Brienne struggled to track her opponent as his reflective armor shifted across the snowy fighting grounds.

The cold wind snapped at her face while whirls of snow threatened to consume her. Brienne was lost inside of a haze as the light of the Night King’s sword faded into the dark fog. Brienne was alone; trembling, paralyzed with fear. Lost inside the halls of vapor, she heard nothing more than the sound of her breath. Gulping from fright, she primed Oathkeeper with a false air of calm. Rocks and ice crunched beneath her boots. She could feel the Night King’s eyes watching her.

Sick with fear, Brienne closed her eyes and tried to focus on the silence. A soft _‘crunch’_ took her by surprise. Silver light flashed from the corners of her eye. She suddenly felt hot blood dripping down her sleeve; seconds later she felt its sting. The crystal sword had only grazed her arm, slicing through leather, chainmail, and steel as if it were nothing but silk.

Brienne winced as hot stabs of pain lanced her arm. _He could have killed us..._ The thought was subtle, but it gave her pause. Steeling her hands over the pommel of Oathkeeper, Brienne’s anger transformed into a cold ire while her broad face darken. Innocent blue eyes fluttered down with the cold gaze of a villain.  

A blue light pulsed in the heart of the mist. The crystal sword whipped through the fog with a whistle of ice and a flash of blinding light; Brienne dodged his swing. She suddenly felt something soft flick across her chin. She looked down. She watched a lock of her hair slide off her shoulder before fluttering to the ground.

Brienne started to seethe once she realized that the Night King was toying with her.

 

\----

 

The blast from the impact knocked down most of the people racing up the streets of Visenya’s Hill. Waves of heat threatened to roast Addam’s skin as he struggled to help members of the Brotherhood back to their feet. Off at a distance, he could see Jaime make a slow climb up a hill on the back of an eviscerated horse dressed in brass barding.

From a distance away, Addam watched a carpet of fog start to unfurl at a distance from Jaime. From the dark fold of shadows, he watched soulless blue eyes lock onto his friend who rode on, unaware. The White Walker was armed with an ice spear, and he had it primed for battle.

Addam began to realize that the White Walker was stalking Jaime.

 

\----

 

  
Swallowed inside the belly of a specter, Brienne moved slowly in a cautious circle, stepping and turning with a wide-eyed vigilance. A supple breeze grazed her ear while a puff of cold air brushed past her cheek. Brienne dipped her head following a sudden blur of light.

Pivoting into a low slide, Brienne turned and swung her blade up high. Oathkeeper whirled at an upward angle but the Valyrian steel bit into nothing. She could hear a sandy _‘crunch’_ to her right. With no time to think, she fell on her back and rolled to a stand, seconds before the ice sword _‘clanged’_ into the ground.

Brienne paced backward until she stumbled up against a stone wall. The crystal blade struck again, landing into white-hot sparks as it flayed stone and mortar instead of flesh and blood. She had only seconds to prepare for a counterstrike as she rolled her shoulder into a launch against the wall. With another _‘clang’_ of white sparks, the Night King made a creaking sound of frustration; his blade missed her, _again_. As rocks and debris crumbled into a shower of dust, Brienne slid away and spun around, trying hard to land her first blow against him. The Valyrian blade swept up into a roll of fog but it sliced into nothing but frost and air.

A blink of light flared. Before she could open her eyes, a shock of pain thrashed her jaw with a stealth blow—the Night King slammed her face with the butt of his sword. Fuming with a grim, hellish pain, Brienne collapsed and slammed her knees into the ground. She was horrified to hear the _‘clang’_ and _‘clatter’_ of good steel. She looked down at her bare hands in fright.

Oathkeeper was no longer in her hands.  

 

\----

 

“Who has a bow?”

Members of the Brotherhood were startled by Addam’s strange request. _“A bow! I need a fucking bow!”_ Of all of the weapons salvaged inside the Great Sept of Baelor, none of the prisoners recovered a bow. “Somebody! _Find me a fucking bow and arrow_ — **_now_ ** _!_ ”

People standing close to Addam quickly figured out the reason for his request. They could see a White Walker stalking towards Jaime. In a panic, one of the men from the Brotherhood shouted an order, demanding everyone to break down doors if need be to find a bow and some arrows. Addam continued to stalk the White Walker from a safe distance away, ducking into alleyways behind crumbled walls and barrels of sand.

A young boy finally found a discarded bow lying on the streets; he pried it off the back of a revived corpse with no limbs. The boy gasped as the limbless corpse tried to writhe and slather. An old woman along with two men was lucky; they found some arrows tipped with dragonglass—they were hard to find since most of the arrowheads had already broken into useless shards.

Members of the Brotherhood raced down alleyways to relocate Addam as he trailed the White Walker who was following Jaime. By then, Addam’s hands had become clumsy and numb. A woman with one eye offered him the bow while a man with blood dripping down his neck opened his hand and presented to him the obsidian arrows. Addam looked down at his hand with bewildered eyes.

 _“You only found_ three _arrows?”_

 

\----

 

Sprawled out on her hands and knees, Brienne gasped for air—the blow to her jaw knocked the wind from her lungs. Grappling with the slick ice beneath her, she struggled to breathe with painful gasps. As the stitch in her lungs finally gave way to agonizing breaths, Brienne crawled over the ice, _desperate_ to find her sword, with tears stinging her eyes. _Where is it? Where is it?_ For Brienne, losing Oathkeeper felt like watching Jaime die again. Pure terror strangled her throat as her wide hands fumbled over the ground in a blind shuffle in the fog.

_I’m dead… I’m dead…_

From a distance away she finally saw it. A ruby stone glinted in the billows of mist. Sliding down to a crawl, Brienne could see blue light flash overhead as she made her way closer towards her sword. Every gain she made was met with another sweep of light that threatened from above. The last sweep of light nearly sliced off her fingers, missing them only by a hair’s breadth. Sick with fear, Brienne threw herself into a desperate slide across the floor onto her side.

At long last, Brienne finally reached her beloved sword. _Got it!_ As soon as she was reunited with Oathkeeper, the crystal sword slammed down in a blinding arc of light.

 

\----

 

They only had three arrowheads to use.

Addam gaped at the bloodied man and woman in shock. The woman with the puckered eye socket could only shrug. “These were the only arrows they found with obsidian still attached.”

Addam grumbled in frustration as he accepted the three arrows. His hands had turned into clumsy mitten by then; incapable of firing anything with accuracy. “Who here can shoot?” The woman with the single eye quietly stepped back; reluctantly, the man with the bloody neck stepped forward and quickly notched back the arrow and bowstring. From a distance, Addam watched Jaime riding from the flaming rowhouses on Copper Alley. Slowly, his dead mount turned to climb the Street of Steel. He watched Jaime make a diagonal shortcut across the Iron Square, a public space used for local celebrations and trade.

As Jaime rode on past the frozen water fountains at the heart of the Iron Square, Addam followed the White Walker as he stepped into the frozen courtyard. By then Jaime was riding past the amphitheater seats that were paved into the square’s walls. Closing his eyes briefly, Addam lifted a soft prayer to the Warrior as the man with the bloody neck set loose his arrow. The obsidian arrowhead whipped through the hail of wind and snowflakes…

...and missed the White Walker by only an inch.

 

\----

 

As soon as the spray of ice and stone had settled, the Night King searched for the woman inside the rolling waves of fog. He found nothing. Nonplussed, the winter king scanned the floor in disbelief. The ugly woman did not die by his strike; to his surprise, she was nowhere to be found.

A growl snarled inside his throat. Annoyed with her, the Night King seethed with a grunt of contempt. Gradually, the irony of his predicament had finally settled upon him. Now it was _he_ who was searching for her in the blinding theater of fog.

A cruel, inhuman cackle fell from his lips. The macabre laughter started to rise, carrying over the cloak of fog with a slow, unsettling ring. Amused by the strange turn of events, the king of death began to turn around, darting his gaze from side to side, searching with irritation for the ugly woman. Slowly, _unbeknownst to him,_ a red sword had started to rise over his head.

Little did he know, Brienne was standing behind him the entire time, following his every move. Like a shadow.

 

\----

 

If the White Walker had noticed the stray arrow, it was quickly ignored. The monster continued on his trek across a field of snow over the Iron Square. His pace was starting to gain on Jaime.

The bloodied man notched back another arrow and quietly pleaded to the gods. He set his arrow loose… this time, the arrow landed directly in front of the White Walker. Slowly, he turned around; his blue eyes narrowed in on Addam’s. With chilling blue eyes, the White Walker turned around and strode towards them.

Rattled with fear, Addam gave the man his final arrow and whispered as the bow-string notched back with a tight groan. _“Please… please… please.”_ The White Walker was gaining closer; he was only a short distance away. With a deep exhale and a soft prayer, the bloody man loosed his final arrow. Black obsidian whipped through the winds and finally landed its target.

The dragon glass found its home deep inside the White Walker’s neck. With a high pitched squeal that splintered glass panes close by, members of the Brotherhood gasped in horror as the Walker erupted into a spray of gray ice.  

Glassy armor eroded into an old, rustic plate while snow and ice poured out from its hollow cavities. Once the frozen dust had settled, immobile corpses that were restored to life quickly perished again with the slaughter of their creator.

As the dense fog receded, Addam raced across the Iron Square and tried to catch a glimpse of Jaime. From a distance, he could see him look back on them. His eyes narrowed onto Addam with a faint look of gratitude. Sighing with an eerie calm, Jaime turned his mare around and continued on his hazardous climb towards the summit of Visenya’s Hill.  

 

\----

 

 

He was unaware that Brienne stood close behind him. The Night King sniffed the air with the faint note of distraction. He could tell that the ugly woman was standing close by.

With a sharp lunge forward, Brienne poured her entire being—her heart, her soul, and mind—into her strike. A sharp ring carried through the mist. _Finally_ , Oathkeeper made contact with the Night King's blade. Grateful to land her first blow, newfound confidence quickly morphed into a faultless execution of skill and technique.

Swords crossed; swords clanged. Swords clattered with the sweet ring of battle. Brienne felt no joy or mirth in her tangle with the Night King. With every stroke that was blocked, every thrust that was missed, it was another hindrance that detained her from Jaime. All she wanted now was to end the war by landing a killing blow, but it felt as though there was an invisible cage surrounding him.

Turn and pivot. Thrust and parry. The brawl carried over charred ruins and smoldering carnage. Swords collided as the winds hailed, guttering out flames as the snows howled with the cruel snap of sleet. As ice pellets stung at her face, nearly blinding her, Brienne’s ire started to transform with an unbridled rage. It was a blind, naked wrath that threatened to consume her.

With every strike he blocked, she felt herself slip free from the burden of prophecy and the yoke of legacy. At last, Brienne permitted herself to embrace the unexpected darkness that resided within her; it was a darkness that had no gender, a fury that paid no heed to birth or titles. She was finally stripped of the armor of name and family; all that was left of her was the soul’s seat of wrath: it was a blood-drenched throne; a frozen crown made of spite and the midnight cloak of ashes.

Inside the total eclipse of her soul, Brienne felt her heart give way to her lurking shadow; she was enshrouded in darkness, and she would bend the knee to no one.

Sharp blades _‘clanged’_ high over head. With their swords locked inside the sharp fangs of death, both of their arms trembled inside of a tense standoff. Leaning in with her whole weight, Brienne grunted as her face drew closer towards his. By the light of his blade, she watched the Night King bare his teeth to her with silent laughter. She fought hard to stave off his reach. The slash on her arm was starting to bite down and throb. Her mouth blasted into a scream of pain.

With gritted teeth and a labored breath, sweat fell into Brienne’s eyes as she fought to keep his blade from reaching her throat. Between her brute strength and relentless stamina, the Night King’s smile began to fade with a quick chill; he started to realize that he’d underestimated her. The hideous beast was no longer an amusement to him—the woman he fought was _his equal_ … a worthy adversary.

As the Night King faltered, Brienne thrusted her blade against his sword, slamming the flat side of it against his throat. By the time he’d regained composure, Brienne had swung her sword again with a blood-curdling scream. Before the sword could reach him, the Night King melted back inside a swirl of fog. Valyrian steel plunged into nothing. Outraged, Brienne swung again with a roar. Again and again, her red blade turned into nothing.

Brienne was exhausted; she panted and heaved as her broad shoulders fell with a teary sigh. _This is it. It’s over... This is the end._ The Night King slipped out of the fog. Gasping and weary, Brienne pinned back her shoulders and threw herself into a storming charge. The Night King reared his blade as he watched the tears stream down her pitted cheek.

Swords crashed; swords rang; swords whistled into the winter air. Hot blood-soaked Brienne’s sleeve; every time her arm flashed with pain, she felt her composure slip inside the dark pulse of iniquity. She lifted her blade to make the next strike when suddenly, she saw it.

It was only a glimpse … a glimpse of her face in the Night King’s armor. In the bright shine of his plate, Brienne watched her reflection blend and shape into the portrait of a living nightmare. With a ripple in the mirror, she could see her face melt with the snarl of Red Ronnet before it transformed into the mocking leer of The Bloody Mummers. With a gasp she watched her lips fall open with the pointed teeth of Biter as her skin faded into a milky-blue with the black veins of Robert Strong.

In a flash, Brienne watched her face transform into the rotted grin of Lady Stoneheart. It was an unexpected glimpse into the heart of darkness… a darkness that truly resided within her.

Stunned into horror, Brienne faltered with a clumsy hold on her strike. Her blow could only knock the crystal sword out of the Night King’s hands. As she watched his fading sword skip across the ice, she felt an icy fist punch her throat, knocking her to the ground. Cold fingers lifted her up by her armor as she gagged with a cough. Her feet scrambled for traction as long legs twisted and flailed in the air. Brienne gagged as his hands started to wrap over the leather collar on her throat. She felt her world begin to fade inside the halls of eternal darkness. The Night King grinned until suddenly, his eyes turned wide and round.

Brienne realized that there was a strange void in her hands. Her fading eyes drifted downward. There she found her beloved Oathkeeper; it was lodged inside the Night King’s belly.

The king stared at Brienne with wild astonishment as his hand on her neck began to soften. Brienne collapsed to the ground as blue eyes, bright like stars, slowly faded into a mortal light. The Night King looked down at the Valyrian sword with parted lips. Black blood filled his mouth; he struggled to remove the blade with slow, painful winces. _He’s not dead..._ Brienne backed away with a crawl as she reached for the leather holster strapped to her boot. Numb fingers tried to fish out an obsidian dagger, but all she found was useless shards of glass; the blade shattered when she fell from her horse on Copper Alley. Backing away in quiet terror, Brienne stumbled over a pile of frozen ruin and fell backward. _Addam said the blade would kill him..._

The Night King staggered towards her and seized her by her hair; he landed a hard punch across her cheek. Dragging her up to her knees, he hit her again before he turned around to retrieve his sword. She could hear a faint ringing in her ears. Time slowed down to a painful crawl as she struggled to stand back up again. She tried to rise to her knees, but she collapsed soon after. Delirious, Brienne paused and looked around the fighting yard. _Jaime... where's Jaime?_

Suddenly her heart broke into untold pieces. _Oh. He’s gone.._.

Her hands and knees slipped into the icy ruts beneath her; she tried to arm herself with a rock that was close by, but the monster kicked it away before she could reach. Underneath his great shadow, a bleak darkness threatened to consume her; she felt as though his shade was feeding off her strength. Brienne could feel herself wane as the king’s shadow tried to drink in the last vestiges of her light. She tried to lunge forward and tackle him but the Night King kicked her in the jaw instead.

Knocked over into a roll, a deep fear began to sink into Brienne’s heart. Scared for her child, she rolled herself up into a ball and tucked her arms and legs close to her belly. _My son... Jaime…_ Oathkeeper was still lodged inside the Night King’s waist; she watched him falter as he tried to kick her in the gut—he only kicked her arms instead. Brienne wilted as his cold shadow started to grow darker. A dark thought suddenly crossed her mind.

 _I could make it all end…_   

Brienne was close to vomiting. _I could make it all end, right now…_ She spat out a bloody tooth as bile threatened to climb her throat. _All I have to do is close my eyes so he can finish me._ In spite of her temptation, Brienne smoothed a clumsy hand over her waist and curled up into an even tighter ball. Her vision was starting to fade. _I could be with Jaime. He would greet me with a kiss and together we would walk_ _out of the Shadowlands, hand in hand..._

Coughing up ruby sprays of blood, Brienne rose to her knees with a jittery balance. Her breath had turned into a painful wheeze. _I may not be a knight... but I can still die like a knight._ She felt her vision start to blur once she caught a glimpse of a figure rising from the flames.

A horse’s scream broke the silence.

The king paused and to turn around. Through a haze of fire, both of them watched a man riding closer towards them; the strange man was seated upon a pale mare. The horse bucked over a ruined wall and landed into a shatter of ice. _It was Jaime,_ riding on the very horse Brienne fell from. Brienne slowly blinked her eyes within a cowl of doubt. _I’ve gone mad with grief..._

It was Jaime—but she also watched him die. As Jaime brought the mare to a halt, Brienne smiled at him in delirium. _He’s come to carry me off to the Shadowlands…_ Brienne closed her eyes and whispered to him in serene faith.

 _"I trust you, Jaime._ I trust you, _I trust you..."_

The Night King bent over with the Valyrian blade lodged in his belly. Cruel hands yanked back her head with a fist full of her hair. Brienne started to panic.   _No…_ The king thrusted her head back and exposed her pale neck. When Brienne opened her eyes, she threw him a defiant glare.

_No. I still have a chance…_

The winter king raised his sword for the killing blow.

 _I still have a choice…_ A soft voice rose to her lips.

“Every moment is a choice.”

Brienne closed her eyes with a deep inhale and slammed her weight against his knees, throwing the Night King backward and knocking him to the ground. Crawling across the snow, Brienne kicked the crystal sword away before she attempted to retrieve her Oathkeeper. Brienne struggled with a roar of pain; the Valyrian blade was frozen deep inside of him. The Night King punched her. Together they rolled across the snow with his gagging howls and her grunts of pain. He pinned her on her back and tried to choke her. From the corner of her eye, Brienne found the rock again; she grabbed it and started to bash his face in with it.

Sprays of black blood flicked across her neck. She gagged on his tarry blood as the rock crushed in his nose and shattered one of his cheekbones. The winter king rolled onto his side and reached for his sword. On his feet, the king lunged forward with his crystal sword pointed towards her waist.

And then... all was silence.

Slowly, Brienne opened her eyes once she heard a soft clatter. The crystal sword was no longer in the king's hands; instead, it was lying next to her on a bed of snow. Brienne cautiously looked up. Sprouting from his chest, Brienne could see a second blade skewered through his armor. It was The Fair Maid, now sheathed inside the frozen heart of the Night King.  

Though he’d suffered by the wrath of Oathkeeper, Brienne’s sword wasn’t enough to slay the king of winter. Only the cold kiss of Ice, the reuniting of two swords, had the power to end his reign. Brienne watched the red steel drip black with blood. Standing behind the king was Jaime. With a blank face and cold eyes, he kicked the monster down, forcing the slain king to his knees.

The Night King breathed heavy; slowly, his fading eyes drifted towards Brienne. Both hero and villain now faced each other, both on their knees, mirrored like twins. A slow flush of ice started to creep over his skin. Brienne rose to her feet while flicking the warm blood off her chin; she was astonished by a familiar look inside the king’s eyes. Once his face was entombed in ice, his eyes turned from a soulless blue into a peculiar gray. Brienne gasped; they were the gray eyes of a Stark.

For a moment, Brienne panicked as she felt her heart twist up with compassion; she’d realized that a part of her wanted to _save_ the Night King. Looking down on her enemy in a confusing blend of heartbreak, Brienne raised a soft hand and reached for the Night King's head. As soon as her fingers glossed over the brittle ice, his body collapsed into a shower of snow. The mirrored plate tumbled down into a rusted heap beside their swords.

Moments after the Night King fell, so too did Jaime.

 

\------------

 

Brienne managed to catch him with a gasp.

Leaned up against her like a dead weight, Jaime collapsed into her arms before he landed onto the snow. With tender hands, Brienne fingers fluttered over Jaime’s face as her legs collapsed under his weight. Settling his body deep into her lap, Brienne smoothed back the dark soot and dried blood from his face. Finally, Jaime’s eyes fluttered open.

His eyes were still blue.

Rendered helpless, Brienne started to rock him in her arms with baffled eyes and a shallow breath. _“Jaime? Jaime…”_

Heavy blue eyes gradually turned towards Brienne’s. In spite of all of her fears, she felt herself smile. _“Shhh shhh shh._ I’ve got you. _I’ve got you._ I promise.” An avalanche of doubt was heaped onto her shoulders. Brienne had no idea what to do. All she could do was rock Jaime in her arms as eternal sleep tried to reclaim his eyes. _“No!_ No. Jaime? _Jaime, please._ Please?” In a frenzy, Brienne raised her chin and looked around. Tears of panic blurred her vision. “Someone? _Anyone?_ **_Help!_ ** _”_

No one responded.

Instead, Brienne felt a cold finger graze over her pitted cheek. Brienne fell silent and looked down. She’d felt the life leaving from Jaime’s body. Terrified of losing him again, Brienne’s eyes squinted with tears as her voice bled with the soft whisper of ‘ _no.’_ Her tears subsided as Jaime’s cold hand ghosted over her face. She watched the brilliant blue light start to fade from his eyes. She was about to lose him again. Brienne wrapped her fingers around Jaime’s hand and looked down at him with a tender smile.

To her amazement, she watched him smile back.

With a deep sigh and a dwindling smile, Jaime’s blue eyes fell closed. Brienne could feel his chest cave in with his final breath.  

Following the death of the Night King, tens of thousands of wights fell down into rotted heaps on the grounds of King’s Landing. With their demise, the snows finally ceased, and the fog of death started to melt away like the haunting memories of a nightmare. Of all of the creatures who served in death, Jaime’s body was the last one to succumb.

 

\----

 

“I think I heard it coming over here.”

_“Well hurry!”_

A small army of boots marched over the slush and blood of war. At last, Addam reached the summit of Visenya’s Hill with the Second Brotherhood in tow. As they made their final turn on the Street of Steel, one of the women spotted Brienne seated on the ground. She was hunched over, quietly weeping. The Brotherhood halted in the clearing. Brushing past the others, Addam broke through the crowd and found Brienne; he could feel his heart start to break once he realized that she was cradling Jaime’s body.

Slowly, Addam approached the Hand of the King with soft, reverent steps. Trailing behind him at a short distance behind was Beth. Feeling nervous, Addam peeked over Brienne’s shoulders. There he saw Jaime, lying dead in her arms. “My lady?” With her face hunched over Jaime’s body, Brienne fought to speak, but the ache of grief was still too harsh. She could form words no words. Addam knelt down beside them and rested a soft hand on her shoulder.

Brienne glanced at him with tearful eyes and spoke to him in a childish whisper. “What do I do? What were the words Thoros used? _What do I say?”_ Addam turned to Beth; she was standing close by with members of the Brotherhood looking on. With Addam’s eyes boring into hers, Beth finally spoke up with a sobering voice.

“It wasn’t Thoros who restored you to life, Lady Brienne. Only the Red God can do that.” Brienne glanced up at Beth in wild confusion. “When Thoros saw you, he was the first to see who you are. You are the daughter of fire—the Red God _resides within you.”_ Incapable of speech, Brienne looked back down at Jaime in quiet torment. She was cold, confused and still in shock. Sensing her frustrations, Beth tucked her hair behind her ear and continued. “Speak soft words to him; speak to your husband as if you were trying to rouse him from some terrible dream. There’s no need to speak empty words of faith, my lady. The Red God favors the humble; all you need to do now is give him your command. Your power is real when you speak _your_ truth.”

Silence claimed the whole of Visenya’s Hill. As the fog over the capital started to melt away slowly, Brienne glanced up to look at the night sky. At last, she could see something that was beautiful. A crescent moon hung inside the black cloak of night while the skies dazzled in brilliant starlight. The King’s Crown adorned the moon with its quiet grace; hung beneath it, Brienne could see the Moonmaid—she was in her zenith, shining bold and beautiful under a blanket of starlight. Choking back on a sniffle, Brienne realized that the Moonmaid and the King’s Crown were facing each other; they were locked together, encircling the moon inside the ballad of a celestial waltz.

Tears fell from Brienne’s cheeks; they skipped over her lips and rained down from her chin. They bathed Jaime’s face with the soft kiss of longing. Tucking his body close to her chest, Brienne looked down on his body as tears rained across his armored plate. The tears gathered up into a small puddle that fell into the hole pierced through his chest. Smoothing back his hair with a gentle hand, Brienne brought her lips close to his ear and spoke to him in a painful whisper.

“In sleep, we dream; we dream of things that seem impossible. We dream of hope… a reason to live and carry on. But there comes a time when all dreams must end. Our dreams must end so that we can wake; so we open our eyes and rise with the sun. We dream so that we might have a reason to carry on.

“You are a lion... _a knight._ But you are worth so much more than that. _You’re honorable._ You’re a good man who’s fair and just. You’re my husband, _my best friend._ An oath keeper, a king maker. But you’ll also be known by another name… a name that you’ve dreamed of and always longed to hear.” Brienne licked her lips with a shuddery smile. “You will also be called a _‘father.’”_ Brienne looked down on her beloved with a sad smile.

“Jaime… _rise._ Rise from your dreams so you may greet our son.”

For a long time, nothing happened. Grieved by his white skin and his cold silence, Brienne’s face crumpled up with hot tears. Feeling as though she had finally lost him, Brienne buried her head into Jaime’s neck and cried with a sob that wracked her chest. Addam looked down on the two with a mournful sigh and rose to a stand on weary legs. Just before he turned his head, he saw something strange.

It was a slight movement. Barely noticeable, but it was movement all the same. It was a subtle twitch in Jaime’s fingers. Addam turned back around and knelt close to their side. “Brienne… _my lady.”_ Brienne wouldn’t listen. Suddenly she felt it; it was a slight turn of his head. She felt a cold nose brush against her temple. Soon after his neck grew tense and a small sound bathed her ear. Lifting her face with doubt, Brienne felt her heart began to swell in hope.

Jaime struggled to breathe; the pain was great. Deep in his chest, he felt a cold needle of death buried within his heart. Gradually, the cold needle began to thaw and trickle out of his chest before sliding down his ribs. Desperate for air, Jaime could feel his lungs start to burn; they were longing to draw in their first breath.  

Fat droplets of rain fell into his hair; they rolled across the dips of his face and hollows of his throat. Bundled up tight in Brienne’s arms, Jaime shivered and gagged and cried out in agony as he felt the warm rainfall into his ear. Every lungful became a torture to him as he suffered to draw in his first breath. At last, Jaime had surfaced from the dark tide of dreams. With a sharp gasp, his face jolted back into consciousness. As he let out a shuddery sigh, Brienne watched him carefully as he slowly parted his dark lids...

Brilliant green eyes slowly fluttered back to life.

A thick cry of relief sounded above him. It was Brienne’s voice.

Jaime winced and ached as he slapped a hand on his chest plate with a shock of confusion. He cringed in agony as he felt the cold death thaw inside of him. He buried his face deep into Brienne’s lap and trembled with countless aches as a strange warmth flooded his chest. He could feel his heart start to burn with a strong, steady pulse. Deep shivers rolled throughout his body as the cold slush of blood thinned out and coursed through his veins. The white thaw of death finally gave way to the pink flush of life. Drawing in light gasps of air, Jaime rolled his face back up into Brienne’s arms and offered her up a weak smile.

Once he slowly regained his vision, Jaime realized that the skies weren’t raining. His wife’s tears had rained down on him instead. As Brienne ran her thick fingers into his hair, she hummed and mewled with a sweet relief. With heavy limbs, it took all of Jaime’s strength to sling one arm over her shoulder. Once he had caught his breath again, he burrowed his face deep into his wife's neck. Savoring in the warm feel of her pulse, Jaime closed his grateful eyes and smiled.

Brienne laughed and smiled also; it was a smile that made her feel like the disembodied soul of joy. She wept once she could feel his heartbeat; it was healthy and strong and ‘ _boomed’_ with the pride of a war drum. Every breath he took became her heart’s revival; it was a joy that moved within and poured throughout; a joy that rose up from the plains of mortality so it would conquer the immortal, fantastic divide.

Brienne sniffed and laughed as her composure melted into a sweet sob of relief. She kissed his cheek. She kissed his head. She kissed his nose and his heavy lids. She felt the soul of grief die upon her lips with a tight voice and a shaky smile. “Jaime… _Jaime.”_

By then, men in Lannister arms approached their supine Lord resting in the arms of his Lady wife. Draping his weary head over her shoulder, Jaime licked his dry lips and whispered to Brienne with a croaking voice. _“In the Shadowlands… I felt you... I heard your prayers.”_

Choking back on a fresh boil of tears, Brienne whimpered as she nodded her understanding deep into his neck. Grateful eyes fluttered shut once he could breathe in his wife’s scent. _“Thank you… thank you for loving me.”_ Brienne sobbed with a tearful snort and a painful laugh. Ignoring everyone that gathered around, she whispered into Jaime’s ear with teary eyes and a painful smile. “Loving you is my only choice.”

Quiet footsteps started to close in around them. Among the rubble and carnage, men and women gathered while they stared at something strange at a far off distance. At first, it was a violet haze that crept over the blackened towers of the capital. Gradually, obsidian night faded into thick swaths of luminous cobalt. Plum-blue clouds faded from a tarnished silver to the bright sheen of pale brass. Soon after, the mournful veil of winter bowed down with the ascension of golden light.

At long last. It was the sun.

Blackened towers and flaming ruins were dwarfed under the spirituous glow of life. The citizens of King’s Landing clambered over smoking rubble just to witness the miracle of dawn’s first light. Men in Lannister arms—still baffled by their lord’s resurrection—gathered around to help both of them up to a wobbly stand. Propped up by her strong arms, Jaime offered a weary smile to the sun while Brienne closed her eyes and savored a warmth she missed so dearly.

Brienne remembered a time when she thought she had greeted her last sunrise. It was on that fateful morning when they watered their horses outside of Pennytree. From a whispering trail of field grass, she remembered the look on Jaime’s face as he made his way towards her. She remembered he how walked with his hand tucked behind his back, accompanied by a strange smile. It was on that morning he gave her a tiny blue rosebud.

Brienne remembered how her heart ached once he presented the flower to her. Though she had learned to despise all roses, it wasn’t until that moment she realized that only rose she could ever love was the one that was given by _him._

From a distance, Brienne could hear whispers flow into a shy babble of voices. Having grown tired from all of the taunts and whispers, Brienne opened her eyes and looked around. She saw men and women pointing at the ground. Filled with a cold dread, Brienne lowered her eyes and looked down also.

Much to her relief, Brienne had discovered a long shadow clinging onto the heels of Jaime’s feet. Moments later, Brienne realized that they weren't looking at him; they were looking _at her._ Glancing over her shoulder, Brienne looked down at her feet. It was then she realized that she had been reunited with her shadow. With the end of the Night King—a monster who was death incarnate—Brienne was granted a precious gift; at long last, she was fully restored to a mortal’s life.

Faint with relief, Brienne huffed at her dark twin in amazement as Jaime's eyes met hers with a knowing smile. _He always knew._ In spite of everything that happened, Jaime always knew that she wasn’t a monster. He saw her for who she was. To him, she was a woman who was already made perfect. She was his beautiful maid, his indomitable spring.

As Jaime’s face lowered in for a kiss, Brienne faltered once she felt people’s eyes staring at them. She had longed to kiss Jaime, but she was fearful… fearful until Jaime’s eyes locked onto hers. Lost inside of that perfect moment, Brienne felt the whole world drift away into an ocean of silence. With a lopsided smile, she smoothed back a lock of Jaime’s hair as he smiled back.

 _Damn their eyes_...  

Brienne’s thumb measured a thick stroke across her husband’s mouth.

_...damn their eyes and let them watch._

Choosing to ignore a lifetime of fear and insecurity, Brienne lowered her face and sank her lips onto Jaime’s. It was a faultless kiss, a kiss made perfect and only for them; it was the soulful reunion of the heart and mind. It was a kiss that could only be found in the gilded pages of an ancient book; a book that told a timeless tale of dragons, ice demons, and chivalry. It was a kiss given by a perfect knight to his fair maid.

It was a kiss that belonged to the true heroes of a tale.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow.


	24. The Son (Part III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter to A Walk with Frost and Fire (and Death and Snow).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my greatest honor to see you here now.
> 
> Enjoy.

The sound of footsteps was his only companion.

Pacing back and forth in front of the Iron Throne, Jaime Lannister clenched his hand into a hard knot once he felt an odd tangle pull inside his gut. Sighing with impatience, he kept throwing glances at the doors of the King’s antechamber. He was waiting for the arrival of his son, Tommen. Dwarfed beneath the arching spires and the imposing stained glass windows, Jaime appeared anxious with the weary look and a sickly green face. Growing restless, he took a knee at the base of the Throne and sat down, resolving to wait for his son on the stairs with some semblance of dignity.

As the long seconds dragged on in a palpable silence, green eyes trailed over the hapless scars lining his hand and arms. Jaime exhaled with a deep sigh as one of his knees started to bounce up and down. All of a sudden, a self-conscious grin threatened to corner his lips. In spite of his nerves, Jaime felt strange relief also; it was on this day he decided to tell his son the truth about his father.

To his right, Jaime heard the doors to the King’s Chambers crack open, shuddering in vaulted ceilings like a roll of thunder. Tossing an anxious glance over his shoulder, his nervous smile began to falter.

He vaguely recalled a time when Tommen’s face had been the portrait of sweet innocence; between his cheerful eyes and his darling lion cub grin, his boy’s happiness was everything a father could ever hope for. But after years of war, the ravages of grief had taken its toll on his sweet boy. His little lion no longer had the look of an innocent—his young face was now lean and grim with a sad haunt lost in his eyes.

Swallowing past a lump of fear, Jaime winced as a sting of regret started to burrow deep inside his chest. _For all these years, I could have been a father to him_...  Feeling powerless—helpless to negate the past—Jaime looked up at his boy with a warm, encouraging smile. Forcing himself to be brave, he raised his hand in a warm invitation to his son. His smile dwindled once he fell beneath Tommen’s shadow. Jaime was confused—he couldn't understand why Tommen was drawing his sword...

A grunt of pain echoed inside the Throne Room.

Jaime tried to flee, but Tommen's strike was true, landing its mark deep in his father’s back. With his arms braced against the stairs of the Throne, Jaime trembled in shock as the force of the blade sank into his flesh as if it was nothing more than slick clay. Jaime was devastated to see the odd little grin quirk on Tommen's cheek.

Jaime never felt the gilded blade drive into his back; all he’d felt was the cold bite of steel and hot taste of blood as it burbled in his mouth. He heard a deep _‘crack’_ sound in his ribs while Tommen rotated the golden sword, making the fragile bones splinter and taut tendons snap. With breathless gasps, Jaime collapsed on the stairs of the Iron Throne. Slowly, he turned his head to glare at his boy.

Tommen was no longer a little boy; he was a man grown. A handsome young man in the prime of his youth with flashing gold hair and emerald-green eyes. Jaime was stricken to see his son look so pleased with himself. He’d felt a chill roll through his blood as his boy looked down on him with a vacant expression. It wounded him to see him dressed in his finest armor; Tommen wore a handsome plate gilded in Lannister gold. The suit of armor had been a lavish gift Jaime had given him on the morning of Tommen’s knighting.

Glowering at his son in disbelief, Jaime followed Tommen’s gaze in fear. Throwing down a breathless laugh, the boy slammed a boot on his father's back and yanked out the sword. The golden blade slid from his father with a spray of gore and hot riffles of blood. Satisfied by the damage he had done, Tommen flicked the blood off his sword before kicking his father to the ground.

Jaime was terrified; he tried to crawl away on his elbows and knees; he struggled with only one hand while his knees slipped over the trails of blood. Tommen’s eyes lingered on the growing aisle of blood with intrigue, witnessing his creation as a thing of beauty.

Exhausted from crawling, Jaime collapsed on the marble floor just as Tommen’s footsteps fell still beside him. No longer feeling pleasure in his father’s torture, his smile melted back down into a blank stare. Without blinking, he kicked his father in the shoulder, rolling him onto his back.  

Curled up on his side, Jaime struggled to speak, but all he could do was gag on the frothy blooms of blood. He flinched in terror as his son knelt down to smirk at him. Scanning the Throne Room for someone to help, Jaime’s eyes fell upon his golden reflection on his son’s chest plate. He watched his green eyes turn round in disbelief as thick strands of blood oozed from his mouth, soaking into the folds of his long, snowy white beard.

He felt his head grow faint once his vision started to wane. Close to death, the heavy crown fell off his head before it _'clanged’_ and rolled across the marble floor. Gasping to breathe, Jaime lifted a blood-drenched hand towards Tommen and finally spoke with his final breath.

 _"Burn them all — "_  

 

\--

 

Jaime shot up in bed with a sharp gasp and a muffled shout.

Still locked inside the black smoke of dreams, he felt like he was choking. Struggling for air, his lips parted into a tearful whimper as he struggled to crawl down the length of his bed. Trapped inside of a blind daze, he pawed and scratched at his bedding, searching for his sword as his throat started to dry-heave for fresh air. _I have to find it. Have to find it..._

Seconds before he could set his foot on the floor, a pair of warm hands, soft and gentle, feathered over the span of his quaking ribs. Jaime fell still once the soft hands slowly gave way to a snug pair of arms. Once his trembling slowed, he felt the strong arms coil tight around him—one across his chest, the other around his waist—before they held him close in a seasoned hug.

 _"Shhh. Shhhhh._ It's over, Jaime. _Shhhhhh. It's over."_

Gradually, Jaime woke up as Brienne peppered the back of his neck with soft sweet kisses. Slowly, his fevered mind returned to a lucid state. He opened his eyes with a teary sigh of relief as Brienne hummed, shushing her husband with words of comfort in his ear. Her kisses started to slow after a moment of silence; it grieved her to see his tears as Jaime’s face crumpled up into a silent bawl.

Seated together on the edge of their marriage bed, both husband and wife held each other like forgotten orphans in the cold hush of night. Weeping soundlessly, trembling with confusion, hot tears wracked and burned inside of Jaime’s chest. Depleted of his strength and drenched in sweat, he slowly melted into his wife's arms as his lungs threatened to hyperventilate. With a darling hum of empathy, Brienne tucked his head beneath her chin while she brushed away the cold sweat lining his face.

As Brienne rocked her husband from side to side, trying to lull him into the arms of a quiet calm, she watched Jaime lift a shaky hand to his chest. Though he didn't realize it, he’d developed a habit of touching his scar every time he woke from his dreams. By then, the wound had fully healed; just a pale divot marking the center of his heart—no wider than a nail’s head with a twin scar on his back. While Jaime’s fingers brushed the scar over his heart, he closed his eyes and sighed in relief.

To him, the scar meant knowing. Every time he woke up, Jaime had struggled to realize out what was real and what wasn’t; sometimes he was incapable of knowing if he was alive or dead.  

Once his breathing finally slowed, Brienne tucked her face closer to his and asked him if everything was alright. Instead of using words, Jaime turned his face and crushed his mouth against hers. Passionate lips sought and delved into the other until she became limp and breathless. Feeling his clumsy hand grope the muted curves of her body, Brienne returned his love with a soft growl in her breath and a luxurious sweep of the tongue.

Lost in the throes of a matchless kiss, Brienne melted into the bed with the lazy grace of drizzled honey. In need of comfort, Jaime rose to his knees while panting, nudging her bent knees apart with a furrowed brow and a soft, primal grunt. Spreading out her legs as wide as possible, he pinned one of her thighs down to the bed while his eyes glanced between her legs in a soulful exhale. Looming above her with a vulnerable look on his face, he trailed a shy hand across her waist until it rested between her thighs.

At first, his touch was a soft tease; a pale whisper of fingers that glossed over her folds, stroking and seeking until his fingers were soon drenched. Yearning to belong, Jaime dragged her limp body down the length of the bed until her body rested closer to his. With a deep bellow of arousal, he tugged her hips closer until her slick flesh brushed the underside of his aching cock. Unraveled by his caresses, Brienne grunted in frustration before she sat up, leading him into a stilted crawl on top of her. She felt the butterflies rattle in her stomach like a battering hailstorm once he rested his full weight on top of her. Brienne closed her eyes in gratitude as Jaime glared down at her, making her shiver while his hot breath bathed her face.

Eager to feel his cock slip inside of her, Brienne licked her lips and rolled her body closer to his. Dark green eyes locked onto impossible blue until he glanced down and primed his arousal between her smooth thighs. Tired of waiting, Brienne groaned and squirmed beneath him, panting like a cornered beast while his soft chest hairs scraped and teased her aching breasts.

Moaning with impatience, Brienne bit down on her lip as Jaime fell still above her with a stern look and a muffled grunt; he needed Brienne to surrender to him fully. Finally, her body was rendered sapless; all of the tautness had finally left her body. Ripe and swollen with lust, Jaime dropped his head as he slowly entered her with a sharp gasp and a deep hiss. A soft, ginger pace soon heightened into a rolling thrust of hips. His stoic face started to unravel once Brienne cried out in pure abandon, grunting and whimpering as he rolled into her, thrusting between her legs like a savage brute.

As Jaime’s white teeth flashed in the dark, Brienne unhooked her legs from the small of his back and rolled into him with a wild vigor. With his mouth hung wide open, his mind went blank as he closed his eyes and his face distorted into a tight wince of pleasure.

Slick with sweat, Jaime struggled to grasp onto Brienne's flailing hipbone like the horn of a thrashing saddle. With a breathless snarl, he struggled to keep her still, longing to claim her with his seed. Lowering his mouth for a deep kiss, soft, liquid tongues met and stroked the other while short fingernails sank deep into the flesh of Jaime’s back. A small whimper of submission tumbled from his mouth once Brienne’s nails scratched across his wide shoulders. Bellowing out in pleasure, Jaime surrendered to her fully with a deep moan as she marked his back and claimed him as hers.

Together like this, there were no words spoken; on such nights, a primal love held no language; all that could be heard were the grunts of a rutting alpha trying to claim his wild, indomitable mate. The breadth of their lexicon was nothing more than the soft cries of lust, a rhythmic moan of pleasure and the hard groan of completion.

Together like this, Jaime and Brienne bore no names; their union was a perfect surrender, a sweet fall from grace—a heartfelt dive into the wild and breathless unknown. Instead of suffering in silence, they greeted their fears with stark savagery and unflinching love.

In truth, their wild lovemaking had become an exorcising of demons.

With the warm trickle of seed between her legs and red scratch marks lining his back, Brienne combed her fingers through Jaime’s sweat-spiked hair and whispered her words of love as he gasped and trembled in her arms. Slow, love-bitten lips pecked and prodded each other while spent bodies drifted off into a warm pool of endless sinking.

Wrapped inside of the folds of an exalted afterglow, labored breathing slowly gave way to a wave of peace that no monster could touch. As she felt Jaime's cock slip out of her, Brienne held him tight in her arms with sleepy eyes and a fading smile. With his last conscious thought, Jaime murmured his love to his wife until sleep claimed his addled mind.

Moments before she drifted off to sleep, Brienne lifted up a silent prayer to the Mother, asking for her blessing. Although it was too early to tell, Brienne was almost certain that she was pregnant with their second child. With a lazy kiss on her husband’s temple, Brienne drifted off to sleep soon after.

  

\---------------

 

 For generations to come, a tranquil peace would settle across the Sapphire Isles.

As for the present, snowy fields still lingered inside the shady forest beds of Tarth. While the heart of the island was slow to thaw, across the shores, white sands drank in the warming sunlight, making the island feel like a winter haven for those who survived the Great War. In the long months that followed the War for the Dawn, all of the havoc left by the Others was soon exacerbated by the onset of plague.

With only weeks into the reconstruction phase of the capital, a man rode up to the city gates begging for entry. By then, most of the city gates had been restored, unlike those who wander the streets in numb shock while countless orphans wept for their dead parents. As for the man who rode up to the city gates, he was dying of thirst and half of his face was seized up by grayscale. By order of the City Watch, the sick man—a farmer from the Reach—was denied entry into the capital. Instead, he was offered provisions to make a camp ten miles outside the city walls.

Soon after, hundreds more arrived from the south, all of them pleading for medical aid by the Crown. Within a moon’s turn, the camp had swelled into the tens of thousands. Following the advice of the Grand Maester, Jaime and Brienne monitored the pandemic carefully inside the walls of the Red Keep, grateful to have both Tommen and Myrcella under the guardianship of Lord Selwyn on Tarth.

As soon as the plague managed to sneak its way into the capital, Jaime was forced to take Brienne on her offer. After a brief meeting with the Small Council, all was settled: King Tommen would rule the seven kingdoms from the Sapphire Isle for ten years—the length of time maesters expected for the plague to run its course through Westeros.

As soon as the little King made his formal announcement, select families and members of the court were offered refuge on the island following a mandatory quarantine on the nearby Isle of Morne. The coasts of Tarth were guarded by patrolling boatmen as hundreds of men and women tried to smuggle themselves onto the shores without clearance.

Lesser houses were offered sanctuary on Estermont while others found refuge on Pyke, Broken Arm and Dragonstone. After six months of quarantine, citizens were offered safe passage onto the southernmost reaches of Tarth, provided they showed no symptoms of the plague. But for those infected, those men and women were promptly shipped back to Westeros so the silent sisters could tend them.

 

 

\---------------

 

The forests of Tarth blazed in a golden mist of hellfire.

From a distance, Brienne could hear redwood trees exploding, detonating into lethal sprays of molten sap and flaming splinters. The mountainous terrains that she’d loved so much were no longer amethyst-blue or emerald green; it was a glowing pyre made of blood-orange, pale brass and amber hue. Millions of pitch-black trees wobble and swayed behind a firestorm of light while billows of smoke bled off into the sky, transforming the blue horizon to a salmon pink before saturating in a rich, ruddy brown.

Brienne looked to her left. At a distance, she could see that the marble quarries were flooded with a rising swell of wildfire. She gasped as an army of wights floated to the surface from its clover tide. Each one limped and straggled onto land with boney arms and clouded eyes. As glowing embers from the nearby fires drifted closer, Brienne was horrified to see the jade ocean suddenly ignite, erupting into a pillar of lime-green flames.

“Aunt Brienne…”

A shower of glowing embers took to the breeze like a cast of hawks set to flame. Sprays of fire licked the black skies like daemon tongues worshiping the smoky air. From the swallows of a forested canyon, a great beast raised its magnificent head. Digging her blunt nails into the stone window ledge, Brienne's mouth fell open. The dragon was armored in glossy scales while its leather wings started to unfold and flap slowly. Moments later, it let out a squalling roar, unleashing a shower of platinum fire.

“Aunt Brienne?”

Down below, the innocent people of Tarth raced through the town square in a screaming panic. Hordes of wights chased after them. Stampeding feet, guided by chaos, sloshed through growing pools of blood in the cobblestone streets.

Out of nowhere, a blink of light flash behind her shoulder. In the reflection of the window, Brienne caught a glimpse of shining armor. _It was the Night King._ He was standing behind her. His ice laurel glinted with a cruel beauty while his white lips parted, showing her the black blood that seeped past his pointed teeth. Brienne froze up in fear just as the Night King dropped a cold hand over her shoulder...

_“Aunt Brienne?”_

Brienne flinched with a startled gasped. With her heart beating like a Dornish stallion’s, she slapped a wide hand across her mouth with sudden tears prickling her eyes.

Standing behind her was none other than the Princess Myrcella.

Brienne’s niece looked horrified; both of her arms were coiled up to her chest in sudden fright. Pretty green eyes followed her aunt’s as she watched them transform from a round, glassy blue into a wilted—almost hollow—gaze. _“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”_  Myrcella struggled with words as she watched her aunt close her eyes with a shuddery exhale. “Your hands are shaking…” Clenching up both hands into tight fists, Brienne’s face turned pale with darting eyes as she glanced over her shoulder...

To her relief, she’d found neither flames or wights destroying her beloved island; instead, she found emerald green forests slumbering beneath the mantle of amethyst-blue mountains. The marble quarries were gleaming white as workers extracted thick slabs of rock from torch-lit tunnels. From a distance away she could see the smallfolk cross the town square without a care in the world as an old horse lumbered past the city gates with a loaded cart and a flock of sheep trailing close behind.  

Blinking back tears of relief, Brienne shook her head with a false, mirthless smile. Myrcella winced in sympathy; she recognized the look on her aunt’s face—it was the same face her uncle made every time he was startled. Licking her lips in trepidation, Myrcella raised a slow hand and carefully smoothed it down her aunt’s arm. _It was trembling._ The Princess also knew that her aunt suffered from nightmares, just like her uncle. “I was asking for your opinion...”

Brienne looked down at her niece and blinked in confusion. Her blue eyes suddenly cleared before they slowly fluttered back to life. _“Of course.”_ Looking rather sheepish, Myrcella repeated her question under her aunt’s curious gaze. “I want to know if you like the blue one... _or do you prefer the pink?”_

The princess looked timid as she held up two velvet caps, one in each hand. The pink hat was embellished with an irregular spray of feathers that offered a fashionable sweep over her ruined cheek; the blue cap had a veil that would screen her face entirely. Brienne started to realize why Myrcella looked so anxious; the Princess was searching for new ways to hide her facial scars.

Myrcella’s betrothed, Trystane Martell, was nearing the end of his quarantine on the Isle of Morne. Within a moon’s turn, he would receive safe passage onto the shores of Tarth accompanied with his envoy to Dorne. Although the princess was excited to see Trystane again, she was rattled by nerves also; their reunion would mark the first time he’d see her since her fateful brush with Darkstar.

Rattled by her daydreams, Brienne blinked in a daze before she scrutinized the velvet caps for a long time with vacant eyes and a mullish face. “I think _both_ are lovely.” Myrcella dropped her arms to her sides with an irritated sigh. “That’s what _Uncle Jaime_ said.” Rubbing her fingers over her temples, Brienne closed her eyes and sighed in exhaustion.

 _“Myrcella,_ if the Prince of Dorne is half as wise as he is handsome...” Brienne’s excuse dwindled into an uncomfortable silence that slowly filled the room.

Crestfallen by her aunt’s diplomacy, Myrcella placed the caps on a nearby table and turned to face a mirror hanging in the private solar. Feeling the dull sting of defeat, Brienne dropped her shoulders and sighed. With delicacy, she approached Myrcella’s reflection in the mirror while choking on brittle words of regret. _“What I meant to say was_ … the pink sets off the gold tones in your hair, but the blue is _also_ lovely; it makes your green eyes look striking.” Myrcella’s demeanor softened after thoughtful consideration. “Both are perfect for your choosing, sweetling.”

After a moment of silence, Myrcella’s eyes turned round and vulnerable as they fixated on the void of her ear and her mangled cheek. “Do you think he’ll hate me?” Brienne was horrified by the shattered warble in Myrcella's voice. _“He can never hate you.”_ In spite of her aunt’s vow, Myrcella began to fidget with her hair, desperately searching for new ways to conceal her face.

All of a sudden, Brienne's thoughts turned to Septa Roelle, a cruel nursemaid she once had as a child. One evening, followed by a lovely dinner with Lord Selwyn’s bannermen, Brienne became smitten with one of the attending lord’s son. He was a handsome boy who was quick to heap praise on her at every turn. All throughout the night, he would often tell her how pretty she looked by candlelight; how clever she was, how charming, how sweet, _how lovely._ Later that evening, Septa Roelle took her aside for a prompt scolding.

_“They only say those things to win your lord father's favor. You'll find truth in your looking glass, not on the tongues of men."_

All of a sudden, Brienne was startled to realize that the Princess was now the same age as she’d been when Septa Roelle had taught that cruel lesson. As Jaime’s daughter fussed with her hair with a stoic face and a shuddery exhale, Brienne felt her heart shiver to pieces for her. Like a bolt from the blue, she suddenly realized that she was not helpless to intervene. She had a choice: either she’d allow Myrcella to suffer the same fate as her… _or,_ Brienne could be the antithesis of Septa Roelle.

Brienne decided to become the woman that she needed when she was Myrcella’s age.

With a deep inhale, Brienne’s hands reached up and made a soft, fearful glide down Myrcella’s hair. The Princess’s hands suddenly fell still over her face; after a moment of silence, Myrcella was stunned to realize that the Queen never played with her hair like her aunt did now. As the Lady of Tarth stroked and teased her pretty curls, the Princess tried hard not to frown; gradually, she’d assumed that a Queen had no time for such girlish frivolity. Slowly, her aunt continued with a mother’s yearning in her voice.

 _“Myrcella…_ if the Prince of Dorne loves you, then he’ll see past any scars you’ll bare. Love… _true love—_ is finding the courage to be vulnerable with those you trust most.” Myrcella’s eyebrows pinched together in forethought as her aunt continued with a growing edge to her voice. “And if the Prince of Dorne refuses to see how beautiful you are, then he is nothing more than a royal fool. _The King of Nothing.”_

As silence lingered, an unexpected joy started to fill Brienne’s heart as she continued to play with Myrcella’s curls; she couldn't help but wonder if she would have a girl one day. A part of her cherished the notion of raising a daughter with Jaime, but another part of her was also grieved by it. _What if she’ll grow up to be as hideous as me?_ Ignoring her fears, Brienne squeezed Myrcella’s shoulders with a tender smile pointed at their reflection. Glistening green eyes soon met with hers, and without warning, the Princess spun around and gave her aunt a crushing hug. Brienne gasped in surprise.

As the Princess burrowed her face deep into Brienne’s arms—careful to avoid her pregnant belly—a sudden flash of tears welled in her eyes. It was the first time the Princess had ever given her a hug. Bowing her head in gratitude, Brienne smiled as she resumed stroking Myrcella’s hair with a loving hand. With a heart wrenched by love, the Lady of Tarth realized that it didn’t matter if she’d ever give birth to a daughter; she already had a daughter… one that was beautiful in every possible way.

From behind, Brienne could hear a _‘click-click’_ followed by a whisper of feathers rustling outside. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flutter of black wings flash in the mirror. With Myrcella’s arms wrapped tight around her, Brienne watched a large raven land outside on the window’s ledge. Raising a slow glance towards the mirror, her eyes narrowed on the bird as it peered in to stare at her through the rippled glass.  

Just as the raven settled itself on the window’s ledge, another darkness settled over Brienne’s heart. In spite of Jaime’s love, in spite of her happy family and their peaceful home; in spite of her unblemished honor and the vanquishing of their enemies, the Lady of Tarth couldn't shake the looming haunt of the raven. To her, it was a reminder of something Thoros of Myr once told her when she’d been a prisoner of Lady Stoneheart: “ _Some knights are dark and full of terrors. War makes monsters of us all.”_

For all of the cruelty and madness she’d witnessed during the War of the Five Kings, Brienne always vowed that she would never wind up like the broken man. With the mind of an innocent, brimmed full of childish tales and romantic songs, the Maid of Tarth planted herself beneath the false flag of chivalry while sneering at those who’d fallen so low. But then one day, everything changed…

_“Once upon a time, locked away in the stinking bowels of Riverrun, Brienne the Beauty first laid eyes upon an ugly beast who was once called Ser Jaime Lannister...”_

Not only had the Kingslayer make light of his vows as a knight and a member of the Kingsguard, but he had also chosen his sister as a lover, slew the king he swore to protect and threw a helpless child from a tower window. But with the passage of time, the Maid of Tarth slowly got to know her beast, and in doing so, she found the courage to see another side of him as well.

Though he had neglected his vows to be an honorable man who was both loyal and chaste, there was an inner beauty that the Maid discovered in Jaime Lannister. Though he was a tainted knight, he’d also possessed something that was rare among those who were considered to be either pious or decent. In spite of everything that he’d lost—his reputation, his family, his hand—he was still a man who was made whole. If nothing else, Jaime Lannister was a man of integrity.

To save his family, Jaime had to stomach the thought of killing an innocent. To protect the realm, he was forced to slay a mad king he’d sworn to protect. To live with honesty, he followed his heart and loved the wrong woman. In spite of these odious choices, if the Maid of Tarth was capable of finding such beauty in him, then she was forced to see a hideous truth with herself also.

As hard as it was for her to admit, in many ways Septa Roelle was right; there was a truth that could only be found in the looking glass. During her battle with the king of winter, Brienne was terrified by the truth she saw in the Night King’s armor. She saw a darkness that resided within her—a beastly terror. On that night, she realized that indeed, the war had made a monster of her as well. Brienne realized that behind the mask of every ‘villain’ lies the scattered pieces of a broken heart.

Following the slaughter of her husband and the madness of war, Brienne no longer felt bound by either oaths or honor. She was a widow scorned, turned hollow by grief and unknowingly paved the way for her wrath to rule. That all changed from the moment she saw her face morph into others on the Night King’s armor.

From the cruelty that was known by Ser Ronnet Connington to the harsh existence of the Bloody Mummers; from the incalculable heartbreak of Lady Catelyn to the frostbitten pain of the Night King, Brienne realized that—in truth—she was no better than they. The only difference between her and them was the choice she made. For those who had fallen so low, they didn’t battle with their inner darkness; instead, they embraced it. Though Brienne was tempted to embrace her darkness on that night, instead she chose to serve an inner light: she decided to forgive all those who’d wronged her.

Unsettled by the raven’s presence, Brienne tucked her niece closer to her chest as she glanced at the mirror’s reflection with the hood of dark secrets veiling her eyes. Dropping a sweet kiss on the Myrcella’s head, Brienne heard the raven _‘caw’_ once more before it flapped its wings and flew away.

Stroking a gentle hand down Myrcella’s hair, Brienne held her close as she closed her eyes with a deep sigh. When she’d opened them again, she watched the raven soar away into a line of fog that surrounded the evergreen forests. Turning them both away from the mirror, Brienne sighed and held her niece closer with a beautiful smile.  

 

\---------------

 

In the months that followed The Great War, a single thought would pester Jaime’s mind like an errant fly that swarmed about his head.

For all of the smug lectures he’d heard from his father about the importance of legacy, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder if Tywin Lannister would’ve been proud of him after everything he’d done. For all of the irritation the question inspired, over time, Jaime started to realize that he no longer cared what his father might’ve thought. He no longer cared because he had finally become his own man.

 _Perhaps that’s what father meant all along,_ Jaime thought ruefully to himself. Once he no longer cared what others thought of him, he was no longer weighed down by the burden of a ‘Lannister legacy.’ He was free to become whoever he chose, and in doing so, he unknowingly forged a new path as a result of it. It became an honorable legacy that would precede the Lannister reputation for a thousand years to come.

With a sense of tragic irony, Jaime was forced to accept the fact that no one would ever know _why_ he slew the Mad King all those years ago. It was a bitter fact for him to swallow; his finest act as a knight had been done so for the preservation and safety of the realm, but what made it comical to him was the fact that those he’d saved would never know about it.

No one, that is, except for him and Brienne.

What became so amusing to Jaime later on was the fact that everyone now said that his finest act had been the slaying of the Night King, a bold choice that was done so for the preservation and safety of the realm. It became another fact that was bitter to swallow: during the War for the Dawn, everyone got to bear witness to the redemption of Jaime’s honor.

Everyone that was, except for Jaime.

Jaime always cringed at the blank memory that followed his resurrection in the Maiden’s Tower. He could still recall all those who insulted him when he was nothing more than a lowly oathbreaker; calling him a coward, a treacherous lion, a cursed Kingslayer. Now, those very same people were quick to shake his hand while they openly praised his name. They would often say how honorable Jaime was; how fearless, how righteous, _how pure._

In spite of his gentle protests, Jaime was anointed by a new name, one that would follow him for a thousand years. With the slaughter of the Night King, Jaime also slaughtered his legacy as a cursed Kingslayer.

From that night forward, Ser Jaime Lannister was forever known by all as _The Lion of the Night._

 

\--

 

As for Brienne’s legacy, all she ever wanted was to fit in...

As a little girl, she longed to become friends with all of the pretty girls who floated inside the rarified circles of nobility, but none of the girls would have her as a friend. They liked to say that someone like Brienne was ‘too ugly’ to become friends with.

As a young lady, Brienne dreamed of one day marrying a good man who was gentle and loving, but she was often dismissed by most houses as someone as an eligible match. With either a cruel laugh or a shiver of disgust, noble parents loved to say how someone like _her_ was ‘too masculine’ for someone like their sons.

By the time she became a young woman, Brienne was exhausted by all the years of constant rejection. All she had left to cling to was the hope of one day becoming the perfect knight. Soon after, she was mocked and scorned by other swordsmen for being ‘too feminine.’ Indeed, such an insult was almost too painful for her to bear.

Unbeknownst to her, Brienne was destined for more than being a shallow friend, a simple beauty or a heartless knight. All throughout her life, the gods had groomed her to become someone more exalted. Instead of those things, it was Brienne’s destiny to become the Warrior incarnate. But not only was she a warrior, but she was also a maid. A sweet maid that was touched by death, but also held the power to create new life.

It was never her destiny to fit inside of any mold; Brienne’s destiny was to shatter the mold instead.

In the long days following the Great War, Brienne sought out Beth once she’d received word that The Second Brotherhood was preparing their journey back towards the Riverlands. When she’d finally found Beth amongst towers of smoke and the ruins of the capital, Brienne looked desperate. She had to know _why_ she’d walked without shade following her resurrection.

With a cryptic smile, Beth stared up at the Lady of Tarth with an inquisitive look on her face and offered up a veiled reply. “Lady Brienne, the presence of darkness is nothing more than the absence of light.” When Brienne failed to understand, Beth reached for her hands and concluded with a soft finality.

“A maester once told me that all things beneath the sun should bear a shadow, but there exists only one thing that’ll cast no shade…” Brienne looked puzzled; she’d never been fond of riddles. “It is _the sun,_ my Lady.”

Brienne looked numb with shock as Beth continued.

“Lady Brienne… you walked without shadow not because you were revived in darkness; you walked without shadow because _you were_ _the light.”_ Stunned by Beth’s admission, Brienne felt her whole world turn on its head.

“You were destined to become more than a conqueror and far more than a plain beauty. You are  _The Light of the West_ , my lady. The one _true_ Evenstar. You are the first to shine… the last to fade.”

 

 

\---------------

 

 

Although Brienne was exhausted, she was still restless, even in her sleep.

With one arm splayed to her side, she unknowingly reached for her husband inside the warm fog of dreams. After a few moment of sightless fumbling with cool bedsheets and heavy blankets, Brienne opened her eyes with a sudden start.

Jaime wasn't beside her.

Seated up in bed, Brienne scanned the room with bleary eyes until she finally found him; the back of his head was seen in profile in front of a roaring fire. Concerned for him, Brienne slid out of bed with flaccid arms and clumsy legs, slowly dressing in her sleeping tunic—the very one Jaime threw to the floor earlier that night. Padding towards her husband with a sleep-flushed face and a savage tangle of curls, Brienne scratched her head as she fought hard to blink the sleep from her eyes.

Since the war had ended, Brienne’s thin, brittle hair slowly transformed throughout her pregnancy. In time, the straw-like hair grew out into a soft glide of pale curls. Delighted by the changes with her hair, she permitted it to grow out past her shoulders. And though Jaime was quick to tease her for her new look, he’d often tell her how much it suited her as well. Though he was slow to admit that he missed her short hair, he was delighted to see her blossom with a newfound confidence as his wife started to navigate the uncharted waters of her femininity.

Whenever Jaime was incapable of sleep, he’d often spend nights in front of the fire with a cup of mulled wine and one of Brienne’s old books. For all that they’d seen, for all of the nameless faces they were forced to kill… neither one was the same following the Great War. They became quieter afterward; more withdrawn and much slower to speak.

Like many survivors, they battled with nightmares at night while they struggled to ignore their shaking hands by day. Their faces had turned lean with dazed expressions and nervous smiles; they flinched at shadows and relived the past with the glaze of a thousand yard stare caught in their eyes. They grew sickly by the sounds of metal clashing against metal. Like others, there were times they would hate the sight of snow, fog or ice; sometimes they were afraid of smoke and fire also.

On this night, however, neither one had a fear of the fire. If anything, it became a strange comfort for them to always have a fire lit inside their bedroom. Though they lacked for nothing inside the comfort of Evenfall, the only thing that Jaime and Brienne craved was peace and the hope to one day move on with their lives. Neither one liked to talk about the war; all they had to do was share a look in knowing.

Instead of finding either a glass of wine or a book in hand, Brienne found her husband seated cross-legged on a bed made of pillows and furs in front of the roaring fire. Placed before of him on a small bearskin bed, Jaime looked down on his infant son and smiled with round eyes that were soft in quiet marvel.

The boy’s hair was just a shock of pale blond hair. Jaime felt a pinch of worry start in his chest once he saw the baby twitch and frown in his sleep. Jaime winced. For all of the power the Lannister name could purchase, he was rendered helpless as he watched his infant son battle his dreams all on his own. All Jaime wanted then was to have the power to slay his son’s nightmares. Smoothing a calloused thumb across his soft cheek, Jaime looked down at his boy with a smile that was filled with wonder...

_Do you know where you come from?_

_Do you know how many roads we traveled, how many wars we fought?_

After a few moments, Jaime was relieved to see the babe stir with a breathy lull and a deep sigh. He felt his heart twist up with love as he watched his little cub yawn with a tiny roar. Holding back a watery chuckle, he tucked the blankets closer to his son's chin while blinking back a flash of sudden tears.

_Do you know how far we staggered across a field of thorns?_

_Do you know how we struggled to breathe amongst the hateful trout?_

_Do you know how long we fought against wrathful dragons and vengeful wolves?_

Grazing a thick knuckle over his son’s hand, Jaime smiled again as the babe snuffled and yawned, wrapped inside the gossamer of sweet dreams.

_Do you know how far we wandered across valleys of fire and wastelands of snow? Or how we dared to brave the white forests of time?_

“Jaime?”

Jaime glanced up to see his wife standing close beside him. With a warm smile, he motioned for her to sit next to him as the baby slumbered on in a deep sleep. Cuddled inside the warmth of her husband’s side, Brienne sighed in contentment as Jaime wrapped a disfigured arm over her shoulders. Letting out a deep yawn, she tucked her head deep into his neck and kissed his ear. In turn, he planted a loving kiss on her golden head, wishing that he could stroke her pregnant belly also. Glancing back down at their son, Jaime continued to wonder as he tugged Brienne closer to his chest.

_Do you know how much we suffered and bled, wept and loved..._

_all that so we that could greet you here?_

For a long time, both mother and father remained at peace in front of the roaring fire as their little cub dozed between them on a bearskin bed. As the evening hours passed, Jaime slowly gathered up his precious boy and tucked him in his arms. The father beamed with a darling smile as he watched his son stir and nestle closer to his chest. Recalling the pale scar marking his heart, he was delighted to realize that son had fallen back to sleep by the sound of his father’s heartbeat.

As the golden fire crackled inside the marble hearth, Brienne woke up to see her son held up in Jaime’s arms; the babe was staring at his mother with inquisitive blue eyes and a serene smile. Jaime peered down at his son’s head and started to grin like a fool. Delighted to see that the baby was awake, Brienne quickly sat up with a smile and reached out for the baby.

Together, husband and wife looked down on their son as he started to gurgle and fuss happily in her arms. Brushing her calloused fingers over his fluffy blond hair, Jaime stared at his wife with a soulful grin as he murmured in a voice that was soft with laughter. “Isn’t he _perfect?”_

Leaning in close, Brienne rested her cheek against her son while Jaime reached out to stroke his rosy pink toes. Trying her best to choke back on a sudden lump, Brienne nodded her accord with a grin that rivaled her husband’s. “He’s more perfect than anything I could’ve dreamed of.”

A slight pause took Jaime by surprise.

As he watched his wife gather up their son with love filled eyes and a cooing voice, he watched her sink her nose inside the tiny crook of his neck with a deep inhale. Brienne smiled brightly as she breathed in the babe’s warm scent; it was innocence wrapped inside a bouquet of milk, soap, and sunlight. Stroking a wide hand down his small back, Brienne let out a rare giggle as the child started to blather in her ear with sputtering lips and a gurgled smile.  

Jaime’s eyes lingered over the dark shadows both he and his wife had formed in front of the glowing fire. With grim eyes, he turned to the light-filled void where their son’s should have been. Clenching down on his jaw, Jaime finally spoke with a soft voice that was framed by bafflement.

“There’s something I’ve always been meaning to ask, Brienne…” Jaime carefully searched for words. “When you’d walked without shadow… _what did you see?_ Did you ever see our son in the flames?” Brienne’s smile had fallen before her face turned white with an unexpected flinch. _“I’m sorry…_ I didn’t mean to offend— ” Brienne quickly shook her head with a forgiving look. _“You don’t offend..._ I’m just surprised you asked.” Jaime nodded with an uneasy expression on his face. Kissing the babe’s cheeks in mild distraction, Brienne continued with a heavy sigh as she patted and smoothed his warm back.     

“For all that I’ve seen... from the rise of the White Walkers to the frozen reaches of the north, _I was scared._ I tried my hardest not to look.” Her memories suddenly turned to a vision she once saw in the flames of a burning orphanage on Copper Alley. In those flames, Brienne had witnessed a bleak omen; it was a far distant future that neither she or Jaime would ever live to see...

A thousand enemy ships had breached the shores of King’s Landing.  A hundred thousand men poured from the invading boats, rushing onto the coast with sharp blades in hand. The invading army was composed of a crude motley of men; there were Unsullied, Dothraki and ruthless sellswords, all racing from their under a hailstorm of arrows, determined to sack King’s Landing. Each ship bore the sail of a gold rose on a field of green… it was the dreaded sigil of the invading enemy: it was the exiled family of House Tyrell, returning at long last to reclaim their dashed crown.

_“He will know war…”_

Jaime was spooked as Brienne’s voice faltered in a nervous whisper. Wide, unblinking eyes found his with the strange look of an otherworldly clarity. “I once saw a blue-eyed king holding onto a red sword…” An unexpected chill rattled Jaime’s bones. _“...a king that bore no shadow.”_ Instinctively, Jaime’s eyes darted above their heads towards the fireplace mantle.

Mounted above the fireplace—resting in perfect opposition to each other—rested their twin blades: _Oathkeeper and_ _The Fair Maid._ By the light of the fire, crimson swirls of dye seemed to dance and skip across the Valyrian steel, making the red colors gleam in the light like ripples of freshly drawn blood.

Glancing back down at their son’s impossibly blue eyes, Jaime felt a sinking weight tug down in his chest. Long minutes passed with an uneasy silence. As Brienne swayed their child with loving arms, Jaime watched his son drift off in the blessing of untroubled peace. Once he fell asleep, she lowered him back down on the bearskin pelt. While tucking the blankets closer to his chin, Brienne was devastated to hear Jaime gasp out loud with a slow comprehension. Gradually, he continued in a small voice that made her heart ache.

“But… Tommen’s eyes are _green_ …”

Her broad face coiled up with the look of painful knowing. Glancing over at Jaime, Brienne grimaced at his face with sad eyes. _He’s such an innocent…_ While she traced a soft finger over the babe’s cheek, Brienne whispered again as she blinked back the threat of tears. “It won’t be for many years. Not until he’s a man grown.”

Staring down at their child with a locked jaw and haunted eyes, Jaime’s voice flustered with helplessness before he reached out and gathered their son in his arms again. Brienne felt helpless as she watched Jaime bury his face in his son’s neck while an unexpected hitch rose in his breath. He felt his fears try to steal his next breath with the ache of a future they wouldn't live to see.

Foolishly, Jaime assumed that the realm would live on in unvanquished peace for hundreds of years. Like a halfwit, he’d believed that Tommen would rule the seven kingdoms in tranquil prosperity until he was old and gray. Ashamed by his innocence, Jaime held his son closer to his chest as he stared at the flames with eyes that could see nothing but heartbreak. _We had fought and killed so that our children could one day think that such violence was impossible..._

Jaime was taken aback once he started to absorb the tragic irony of becoming a father. When he was a boy, all he'd wanted was to grow up and become a knight so he could rescue maidens and slay dragons. When he was a knight, all he wanted was to die with honor on the field of battle and a sword in hand. But now— _as a father—_ all Jaime wanted was to live in peace and protect his son from a world of hurt.

 _Perhaps this is the way of it…_ Jaime sighed as he kissed his son’s head with dull eyes and a broken sigh. _Perhaps it never ends... Perhaps we’re fools to think we’ll learn our lesson… but we continue to learn it, again and again, like madmen._

In spite of the fear that clawed at his throat, Jaime nodded his head under the crippling burden of foresight. Green eyes became entranced by the rippling waves of the fire. He tried to see into the flames, hoping to find a brighter future for his son, but... _he couldn’t._ Jaime’s thoughts slowly returned to the present once he felt his wife caress the nape of his neck with a loving hand. Comforted by her touch, he closed his eyes and rolled his cheek into her fingers, sighing full and deep as he nuzzled her hand.

Slowly, Jaime’s green eyes fell open once her thumb grazed a measured stroke across his lips. He was astonished by what he’d seen; Brienne’s brilliant blue eyes peered wholly into his. Lost in the quiet moment they shared, Jaime carefully leaned forward with their son in his arms. With soft lips, mother and father shared a loving kiss with their first born child tucked between them.

It wasn’t a kiss born of fear or lust; it was a beautiful kiss that reaffirmed a quiet oath—their tireless vow to one another; a promise that they would both keep until the end of their days:

 

_I live for you._

 

 

* * *

EPILOGUE:

 

 

High on top of a sandy dune, Jaime Lannister surveyed the tides below while mounted on his horse.

Enchanted by all that he saw, he felt his heart swell by all of the beauty he was surrounded in. The Sapphire Straits were vivid blue and sparkling white, endlessly lapping over the pearly sands beneath a sunny, cloud-laced sky. Foolishly, he had hoped to reach the shore long before his wife did.

In the midst of their daily ride, Jaime was feeling rather cocky that morning; he decided that it would be fun to race his wife for the shoreline. Moments before Brienne could respond, Jaime launched his mount into a wild shortcut through the redwood forest. At first, he assumed that he’d won as the wood bed started to clear, but once his horse came to a sudden halt on the edge of a steep dune... it became apparent to him that he was only lost.

After a few minutes of searching, Jaime finally saw her. Brienne, the Evenstar of Tarth, was riding down below on the shoreline seated high on her beautiful, chestnut mare. Over the roar of the tides, he could hear his wife call out for him, scanning the hazy coast with a slight frown. Finally, she spotted him; paused on the lapping surf, Brienne looked at the sandy dunes and smiled at him as the salty breeze danced in her curling blonde hair.

Even from a distance away, Jaime could see Brienne’s cheeks turn with a lovely shade of pink from a silly blush. He felt his face break out into a grin as he watched her smile back at him; it was the kind of smile that could put starlight to shame. With a joyful wave, Brienne called out to her husband. She had recently made a full recovery after giving birth to their second child—a healthy and beautiful baby girl. By the look on her face, Jaime could tell that she was thrilled to be riding again.

Glancing around at his place on the lonely hill, Jaime expressed his confusion to his wife with a sound of bafflement and a self-effacing laugh. With a roll of her eyes and a tolerant grin, the Evenstar led her mount towards the dunes so she’d have the honor of rescuing her stranded husband.

As Jaime waited patiently for Brienne, he started to wish that all of his problems could have such a simple resolution. Though he was fortunate enough to be rescued by the Evenstar, many in the realm were not so fortunate. By the end of The Great War, many souls were lost and never to be found again. In the wake of chaos and the aftermath of war, all that could be found of missing loved ones was the hope of one day seeing them again.  

Far off in the north, among the dashed ruins of the Wall and the charred shell of Castle Black, most of those who fought in The War of Ice died by the tens of thousands. With the march of the wights came a storm so devastating, most of the northern houses were snuffed out like candles in a draft. Unprepared and ill-equipped for bitter winds and crippling snows, all of the Dothraki and most of the Unsullied died in the midst of a punishing blizzard. As for the much-feared Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen’s brief rebellion against Westeros had died a slow death in the ravages of snow, leaving her body entombed inside an ice cave for all eternity.

Much like their mother, Daenery’s children suffered a tragic fate as well. Viserion was the first to fall in a stunning battle that spanned the frozen shores of Hardhome. Rhaegal was fortunate enough to survive the north; however, he was slain on the field of battle at the Ruby Ford. As for Drogon, he was last seen headed south for King's Landing with Tyrion Lannister riding his back.

Addam Marbrand had the solemn duty of informing Jaime the news on his little brother. Suffering from the loss of four fingers on his right hand, Addam had remained in loyal service to Jaime for the remainder of his life, often joking to all that he was proud to serve as his lord's right-hand.

Though Jaime was devastated to hear the news about his little brother, he couldn't help but smile through his tears. Even though his younger brother had killed their father and confessed to the murder of Joffrey, Jaime still nurtured the hope of one day seeing him again. For over twenty years, Jaime paid spies to look for his brother, hoping that the reports of him dying with Drogon during The War of Fire were mistaken.

For every tavern he saw, for every flea-bitten whorehouse he’d ride past, Jaime would often smile to himself, imagining his brother inside one of those places with a dozen beautiful women at his side. In his mind, he could hear the whores laugh at all of his witty jokes while he drank with a lecherous grin, seated on velvet cushions next to a barrel of wine.

From the pleasure houses of Volantis to the salted ruins of Pyke; from the ruined palaces of Yi Ti to the smoldering tower of Valyria, rumors swirled around the fate of the Lannister dwarf. Deep in his heart, Jaime already knew that his little brother died in wildfire explosion in King's Landing. But still, he took a small comfort in knowing that his little brother got to have one of his wishes fulfilled; a long last, Tyrion Lannister not only got the chance to see a dragon, but he also rode a dragon, soaring high above the heads of unworthy men.

As for Brienne, she was relieved to hear that Sansa Stark survived the war once she receiving word that dragons had terrified the Vale of Arryn. Seated on her throne, high up in the thin air, the Stark girl ruled the mountains of the east with Podrick Payne by her side. Grateful for his leal service to her, Sansa knighted him soon after; with time he rose high in the ranks as a revered knight of the Vale. Though Brienne was relieved to hear of both Pod and Sansa’s safety, she was left mystified by ill rumors that loomed over the Stark girl.

For years to come, lords and ladies would state that the Wardeness of the East had turned mad after suffering years with paranoia. Though she’d spend the rest of her days seated high on her throne up in the Vale, Sweet Sansa—the little dove—vowed never to be touched again by the game of thrones. But in keeping with her vow, Brienne was crestfallen to hear tales of Lady Sansa and her heart made of stone.

Fearful of whispers that were never spoken and intrigues that were never made, the little bird remained a widow, never to be married again following the death of her husband, Petyr Baelish. There were many tales told of Sansa’s cruelty to her son, a sickly boy that suffered from a seizure illness. Brienne found comfort in knowing that Podrick Payne grew up to become a surrogate father to Sansa’s boy, as well as his guardian while serving as a knight. Whenever Brienne had finished reading one of Pod’s letters to her, one thought always tormented her like an errant fly swarming around her head: _how can a beautiful bird rise so high, yet fall so hard?_

\--

As for Jaime and Brienne, together they would know many long and happy decades together. But where there is sweetness, there follows a bitter trail also. In the coming years, both would know joy and heartache as well.

Shortly after Myrcella came of age, the Princess was happily wed to her betrothed, Trystane Martell. In a lavish ceremony inside the sept of Evenfall, Jaime was proud to give his daughter away, though he was wounded to hear her bid farewell while calling him _‘uncle.’_

In spite of Myrcella’s greatest fears, the Prince of Dorne was not affronted by the scars she bore—if anything, it had only endeared him to her even more. Moments before they boarded their marriage vessel bound for Pentos, Brienne overheard Trystane whisper sweet nothings into his bride’s ear as she giggled and blushed with endless kisses, telling his bride how beautiful she was.

Though the young couple’s marriage made a fine match for the realm, their precious union was only short lived. After they’d spent a year abroad touring the palaces of Essos, a strange illness began to spread amongst crew members of the ship during the voyage back to Tarth. Just as the honeymoon vessel sailed into the waters of Ship Breaker Bay, the young bride, Princess Myrcella, died of fever soon after. She was five months pregnant with her only child when her bones were interred inside the white cliffs of Evenfall’s tombs.

Hours after her burial, Trystane Martell was broken-hearted. In his grief he confided in Brienne, sharing with her Myrcella’s final words. With a strangled voice he recalled how his bride smiled as she looked on from a distance, seeing the faint lines of Evenfall from her vessel window. With a gentle smile, Myrcella said, ‘how sweet it is to finally come home.’

Later that night, the Princess slipped into a coma and died the following day.

On the morning following Myrcella’s funeral, a group of fishermen returned from a long night of fishing. By the early light of dawn, they found Trystane’s body slumped over on the lapping shores of Tarth. His body was discovered in a kneeling position, both arms hung limply at his side and his whole weight resting on his sword skewered into his chest. The maester examining his body said the Prince had taken his own life by falling on his sword, positioning the blade so it could drive through his heart.

In the mild years following Myrcella’s death, Tommen grew up to become a rather quiet, earnest young man. Between his father's golden curls and his mother’s flashing green eyes, the little King had grown up to become a handsome young man. Though the young King was acquainted with some happiness in his later youth, Jaime always noticed that his son had worn a smile that could never quite reach his eyes.

By his thirteenth nameday, Tommen had suffered from frequent growth spurts, practically transforming him into a man over night. In the wake of such rapid growth, he started hearing foul whispers in court. The King was confused; he didn't understand why the gentry loved commenting on his appearances. They would often say how much he bore a striking resemblance to his dear... _‘uncle._ ’

As foul rumors of paternity flooded his doubting mind, Tommen grew obsessed with the histories and lore under the Baratheon name. Jaime appeared grim whenever Tommen asked for stories about his father, King Robert. At first, he claimed that he was too young to recall his Lord father, the King. But as the years progressed, Tommen became more astute; that was when he started asking his uncle more pointed questions so that he could watch him squirm.

One day Tommen's countenance became sickly once he'd read a ponderous tome; it was a massive book that had listed all of births and deaths under the Baratheon name. In the quiet weeks that followed, the young King received a crate full of books that were shipped from Casterly Rock. Inside the crate were books on the histories and lore of the Lannister name. For days, the young King locked himself inside his private chambers to read. Days later, Tommen stepped out of his room with an ashen face and wounded eyes. It was said on that day, Tommen had walked out of his room a changed man.

Later that year, the Sapphire Isles prepared to celebrate the advent of King Tommen’s right to rule on his sixteenth nameday with an elaborate festival that’d last a fortnight, all culminating on his nameday with a grand tourney followed by an opulent feast. For most of the realm, the festival became a joyous time of celebration, but on the eve of his nameday, Jaime and Tommen had started to quarrel.

It had all began during suppertime inside the great hall with extended family members and honored guests in attendance. That night, Jaime’s tolerance for his son began to unravel when Tommen arrived two hours late for his feast. All throughout the evening, the young King had made a drunken spectacle of himself. He made rude comments to pompous lords and conceited ladies, speaking loud enough for all to hear. He groped wenches that served him and called them foul names; he even passed out on his seat at the royal dais for all to see.

Exhausted by his son’s outlandish behavior, Jaime had Tommen roused from his seat and escorted to the King’s private chambers for a sound lecture. Though the servants and guests of Evenfall could only hear indistinct shouting coming from the halls leading towards the King's chambers, everyone in the castle grew nervous once their voices became fraught with emotion.

Jaime was livid; he was baffled by all of the abrupt changes in Tommen, starting from earlier that year. With a sharp voice, Jaime roared at his son. He was disgusted at his constant drinking; he was revolted by his son’s whoring and groping of defenseless women. Jaime had even grown tired of all of the drunken hunting parties his son would host for weeks at a time. No one in the castle ever found out what was said between the two on that night.

The following morning had marked the end of Jaime’s regency over Tommen. Without a wink of sleep, the former regent staggered into his bedchambers with bleary eyes and a look of defeat while the sun started to rise over the violet mountains of Tarth. Brienne gasped once she saw him; she thought he looked like he'd aged ten years within the span of a night. With a soft catch in his voice, Jaime turned to Brienne and made his teary confession.

“ _He knows.”_

That afternoon, piss-drunk and surly, King Tommen took his seat at the royal dais while his nameday jousting commenced. With a slurring voice, the young King demanded a fresh chalice of wine after he’d drained his last. Sick to death of Tommen’s slurring voice, his rheumy eyes and his foul mood, Jaime ordered the King’s cupbearer away. But before he could finish, Tommen turned to his father with a soused and bitter laugh.

“But I am King, _dear uncle!_ I am now of age and fit to rule! Besides… being a drunk was part of _my father's legacy._ What kind of son would I be if I didn't follow in his footsteps? It’d be a pity if I’d disappointed _him.”_

Jaime fell quiet while his expression had turned to stone. Tommen’s veiled assertion was obvious to those attending his joust; all Jaime was left to do was hold his tongue as members of the royal court looked on. By then, the tourney grounds were silent as the crypt as fat tears gathered in the young King’s eyes. Holding back his urge to weep, Tommen began to laugh out loud in drunken absurdity before he made a rash announcement to the court.

“Lords and ladies! It’s been decided... that on this most auspicious day, your King, Tommen of the House of _Baratheon_ , first of his name... shall celebrate his freedom to rule with a joust!”

The King’s announcement was received with an uncomfortable silence from the crowds. Helpless to stop him, Jaime snapped at Tommen with a curt voice, chastising him for being nothing more than a drunken fool. Fearful for her husband and the wellbeing of the King, Brienne cupped her pregnant belly and watched the whole scene unfold in terror. Members of the Kingsguard tried to talk their King out of making his turn on the field but to no avail. Dismissing their protests with salty curses, King Tommen climbed onto another knight’s stallion and demanded that he be armed with a lance under threat of death.

Endowed by a cumbersome weapon and a broken smile, the young King turned to his uncle while seated on his mount. “Mother once told me that you were the finest jouster in all of the seven kingdoms, _dear uncle._ Though I lack your famed talents, I do hope I’ll make you proud… it’d be a pity to disappoint _you.”_

With that, the King turned to his waiting opponent as Brienne cried out for her father to help intervene. Commanding his opponent to charge at will, the King’s rival paled in fear as the trumpets blared in ready for the tilt. Sick with fright, Jaime gripped the rails to the dais and watched his son charge the field with a clumsy balance. The young King never received formal training on how to joust; Tommen was too drunk to ride, his lance was too big, and his saddle was too wide.

Brienne screamed at her father, begging him to _‘help the King’_ as he struggled towards the field. Moments before Lord Selwyn could reach the tourney grounds, the crash of lances filled the air, and the young King was thrown from his saddle. By the time Jaime had rushed the field, his blood had turned cold at the sight of Tommen’s limp body. Both of his arms and legs were twisted and broken up into odd angles; before he could lay hands on him, Jaime already knew that his son was dead.

The young King died of a broken neck.

Riddled by guilt for the death of King Tommen, Lord Selwyn suffered a debilitating stroke days later, leaving him bedridden and incapable of speech. Shortly after Tommen was buried, Brienne gave birth to their fifth child, a sweet little girl. On the night she was born, Jaime presented the child to Lord Selwyn with a bittersweet pride.

With a light in his eyes and a joyous smile, Brienne's father held his newest grandchild while making a noise that had once been his laugh. Before he fell asleep, the former Evenstar was content in knowing that he could rest easy. For all his life, all Selwyn ever wanted was to see one of Brienne’s fairy tales come to life. For Selwyn, he realized that his daughter’s life _became_ a beautiful fairy tale.

Later that night, Lord Selwyn of Tarth took his last breath.

In the months that followed, members of the High Council were locked in a heated debate in making their final decision. At long last, they had decided to name Ser Jaime Lannister as the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Once Jaime had received the news from a white raven of the Citadel, his back slumped against the wall in total shock. As the announcement fluttered to the ground, Brienne ran to Jaime’s side, fearing that he turned ill. Once she’d read the scroll, he whispered to her with unfathomable dread.

_“I don’t want to be king.”_

Sweeping back the silver and gold hair covering his face, Brienne kissed his forehead and wept beside him. With a voice that was sweet yet leaden by duty, she answered his protest with a weary smile.

“That's why it has to be _you.”_               

 

 

 

\---------------

 

 

Over the dull roar of the distant tides, Jaime heard Brienne let out a rare giggle as her horse made its steep climb over the grassy dunes.

“Come,” she said to him with a knowing smile that made him blush, “let’s head back down. I want to show you the northern shores today. Besides,” Brienne paused with a slow, heated grin, “I think it’s well past time for us to go on another adventure.”

Nodding his head in accord, Jaime smiled at his wife with star-struck eyes as he tucked a strand of loose of curls behind her ear. Feeling as though she were close to tears of joy, Brienne sniffed her nose with a bright smile and tipped her head towards the shore, leading her mare back towards the hidden trail. With a soft word, Jaime called out to Brienne. She paused and turned her mount to face his. Unleashing a slow, playful grin, Jaime motioned for her to ride closer until husband and wife faced each other on their saddles.  

Able to guess what he wanted, Brienne leaned in close while Jaime started to chuckle. Without a word, he kissed her soundly. It was a deep kiss that was full of love; slow yet sweet and utterly perfect. Though she was reluctant to part their lips, Brienne blushed as she bowed her head with a playful laugh.

Reluctantly, Brienne led them back on the trail towards the shore with Jaime riding close behind. Once they’d reached the coastline together, both husband and wife paused and shared a quiet look. Without a word spoken, both smiled as they launched their mounts into a playful race through the lapping tides.

With the sun on their faces and the salted wind in their hair, Jaime smiled as Brienne’s horse outpaced his, leaving him to chase her in the trail of foaming surf. When he finally caught up to her, he had only one thought as they met their eyes and shared a sweet smile.

 _What an adventure..._  

 

*******

 

 

 

Let all those who dream of hope sing this song until the last measure of imperishable time. For a beast like Jaime and a beauty like Brienne, theirs was a love that would live on eternal as a fanciful tale. It would become the age-old story of a perfect love that had no beginning and knows no end.

For Jaime and Brienne, their love truly was deathless.

Just as the sweet breath of spring shall always defeat the cold sighs of winter.  
Just as the gloomy shade shall forever haunt the cheery beams of radiant fire.  
Just as the sun and the moon are fated to waltz amongst the bright stars eternal.

Theirs was a song of love and hate, joy and suffering. A ballad of war and the soft hymn for peace. It was a sweet melody that can only be heard in the faultless choir of day and night, birth and death, shade and light and never tire.

Their love was a song of ice and fire.

 

 

 THE END

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work would never have been completed if it weren't for SeleneU. She was the one who kicked my ass in the most loving way to finish this work. I can honestly say that I seriously thought of deleting my account with AO3 before I met her, but her encouragement inspired me to continue and finish this story. 
> 
>  
> 
>    
> Thank you for reading.


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